


Gifted

by cincoflex



Series: Casa Caliente [8]
Category: CSI: Crime Scene Investigation
Genre: F/M, Holidays
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-21
Updated: 2018-11-21
Packaged: 2019-08-27 03:30:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 27,500
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16694596
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cincoflex/pseuds/cincoflex
Summary: The holidays bring a whole new set of challenges for Sara and Grissom.





	1. Chapter 1

Casa Caliente: Gifted

Sara tried to reach it again, but even with her long fingers, she couldn’t quite manage. The adhesive seemed welded to the slope of her spine no matter how hard she scraped. In desperation she raised her voice, calling through the bathroom door. “Grissom? A little help here?”

A shadow appeared at the frosted glass door and the heavy crystal knob turned; he peeked around inquiringly, his dress shirt half buttoned.“Problems?” he asked softly, tugging on his cuffs. 

Sara jutted her hip at him while she gripped the sides of the sink and he grinned, appreciating the view of her thong-clad bottom waggling at him. I can’t peel this thing off . . .” she complained. He stepped up behind her and let his fingers slide along her hips in a soft caress as he nuzzled her ear. Sara flashed a grin at their reflections in the medicine cabinet mirror.

“Which thing needs peeling?” he teased, toying with the edges of the thong.

Sara rolled her eyes.“The patch, of course. It’s going to hurt like hell, too,” she grimaced. Grissom glanced down and tried not to smirk, but he wasn’t quite fast enough, and Sara swatted his arm on general principles. He bent down to study the problem closer.

“Ah. Okay, we can peel this off slowly, with a lot of tugging and pain, or we can rip it off quickly with SOME pain,” he cheerfully told her.

Sara winced. “Ripping would be better, but I need a distraction.”

“Fine. I’ll tell you a joke.”

“Forget it—I NEVER get your bug jokes, not even the one about the two praying mantises walking into a bar.”

“Have a better one,” Grissom announced as he worked a fingernail under the patch and prepared to get a good grip on it. “It’s about a robot babysitter.”

“Robot babysitter?” Sara asked, bracing herself both physically and emotionally. Grissom made an affirmative sound.

“A little boy goes to his mother and asks her if the teenaged girl, Sandy, who watches him is a robot. His mother tells him no, she’s human, and what on earth ever made him think she was a robot?”

Sara puzzled over this for a second, then shrugged.

Grissom pinched the edge of the patch between his forefinger and thumb as he continued. “The little boys says ‘Well mom, I thought she was a robot because Dad told Mr. Petersen next door that Sandy has a great high beams, and man, would he LOVE to screw the ass off of her.”

As Grissom ended his punch line he yanked the patch off in one smooth motion; Sara laughed, her shoulders shaking for a moment before she glared down at him, her grin wide.“That’s disgusting!” she accused merrily. 

He smirked at her and waved the patch as he straightened up. “Yes, but it worked.”

“THIS time,” Sara warned him as she began to peel the plastic covers off the new patch. Grissom cocked his head and watched her glance over her shoulder in the placement decision process; his grin was both amused and tender.

“Alternating cheeks, are we?”

“It’s recommended,” Sara nodded, handing him the bandage, “Care for the honors here?”

“Oh the things I do in the name of love.”

At this, Sara gave a little moan; instantly they both remembered the last time he’d said those words and the amazingly erotic marathon that followed them. For a moment they stared at each other hungrily, but Sara shook her head, planting her hands on Grissom’s chest and giving him a little push, as much for her own sanity as his.

“We’ve got to get going if we’re going to be ready.”

“I know, I know,” he replied somewhat grumpily. Palming the patch, he brought his hand to her bottom in a solid painless swat, planting the adhesive on the sweetly rounded cheek under his fingers. The added benefit to the move was that it pulled her closer and made Sara jump a little against his chest.

“Hey!”

“I’ll kiss it and make it better later.”

 

*** *** ***

The black limo idled at the curb, its big engine a low purr of power. Sara hesitated, but Grissom guided her to it, his hand on the small of her back. “They sent a car for us?”

“Alex insisted. He’s got his reasons,” Grissom admitted, following Sara into the spacious interior. A low laugh greeted them both, and Sara realized that both Olivia and Sir Alex were already seated within the car, smiling at them from the opposite bench seat. Alex was in a dark grey suit complete with silk tattersall vest and boutonnière, his eyes twinkling behind his wire rims while Olivia wore a dress and jacket of off-white silk and a necklace of grey pearls.

“Gil, Sara my dear, lovely that you could join us on this happiest of occasions. I hope you don’t mind the arrangements, but Bernard is lurking about and I hate to give him anything without a good chase.”

Olivia swiftly signed to her son, a familiar smirk on her mouth as she leaned forward from her seat to kiss him. //Since when have you been living at Doreen’s old house, Gil?//

//It’s my house. I can live there if I want. // Came the slightly petulant signs back.

Olivia let her smile beam at Sara. “I’m so glad you could come for dis, Sara,” Olivia intoned carefully.

Sara smiled and awkwardly managed the gestures in return. //Me too. //

Olivia’s smile grew wider, warmer. Sara blushed and seeing it, Grissom shot her a tender look. “Practice makes perfect.”

“Speaking of perfection,” Alex broke in, “we ought to reach the Bellacova within twenty minutes or so. Trevor will be there with the boys. Are you comfortable with dogs, Sara?”

Olivia nodded; Grissom sighed with a hint of exasperation. //All three of them, mom? You can’t be serious!//

//All three of them are very well behaved. And you love the brutes so don’t even try to pretend you don’t.//

“Dogs?” Sara demanded curiously.

Sir Alex nodded. “Olivia and I have three dogs. Bruce is a mastiff, Lionel is a bulldog and Charlotte is well, something—fluffy. And before you think we’re just a pair of dotty senior citizens, the dogs are actually very important in the scheme of tonight.”

“They’re your family,” Sara deduced, smiling crookedly.

Grissom laughed. “Actually, they’re also a deterrent,” he explained. “Bernard is a stringer for a couple of the British tabloids. He’s been chasing Sir Alex and my mom for years now, but he’s deathly afraid of the dogs.”

“Bruce ate one of his cameras. And Charlotte chased him down de Venice beach boardwalk one year,” Olivia related with satisfaction.

They chatted easily, speaking and signing, and finally twenty minutes later the limo pulled up to Bellacova Gallery. All of them climbed out into the warm sunshine of the afternoon, and Sara felt Olivia touch her arm to catch her attention. She winked in the conspiratorial manner Sara was beginning to recognize; a very Grissom look.

They all walked into the foyer of the gallery together and Olivia let her fingers dance in the air quickly. //I’m confiscating Sara for a few moments—we’ll be back. //

//Very well my love--//

Alex shot her a knowing look and turned to Grissom, giving a sigh of indulgence as a tall cadaver of a man with long dreadlocks and an armful of small white dog advanced towards them. “Sir, the priest has been briefed and the guests will be ushered in shortly. Will you and Miss Olivia require anything further at the moment?”

Alex smiled up at the tall man. “Ah, Trevor—I do hope you managed to get Seville’s to send the rings around?”

“Just so, sir,” the other man intoned. The manservant gently set the dog down and she happily sniffed Grissom’s pant leg. He gave her a stroke on the head while Trevor carefully reached into an inner vest pocket to hand Alex a small leather jewel box.

“Hey Charlotte. Behave,” Grissom told the small dog as he squatted down. Her tail wagged faster at the sound of his voice and he smiled again, receiving an enthusiastic finger licking as he patted her once more. Grissom gave in and spent some time toying with her soft ears.

He liked dogs, his mother’s especially. None of them were show dogs or young, but they always kept the little townhouse lively, and he felt better knowing there were there to keep an ear out around her.

“What do you think, Gil?” Alex was holding out the jeweler’s box and waiting for an opinion. Grissom rose up again and stared at the ring nestled in the grey velvet.

“It’s big,” he finally acknowledged. 

Alex gave an impatient sniff. “Tanzanite, with black opals on each side, yes, a little ornate, but I only get once chance at this, and God knows I won’t insult your mother with diamonds.”

The two men looked at each other in silent acknowledgement, and Grissom sighed a little, rubbing the back of his neck. He met the older man’s eyes and nodded slowly, his smile a shy glimmer of approval. “Mom is going to adore it, and probably cry a great deal.”

Without a word, Trevor held out a handkerchief; Alex chuckled waving it away, and gave a quick sigh, flexing his shoulders. He looked up at Grissom, his eyes bright. “Good lord, I’m actually nervous. Can you believe that?”

“Come on, Alex, this has been overdue by about thirty years.”

The older man grimaced and began to make his way towards the balcony at the rear of the gallery. Charlotte scampered around him. When he reached it, he gripped the rails and looked out over the desert landscape below and let his flinty gaze rake the terrain.

“Pah, don’t remind me! I know your mother refuses to let me speak ill of Pamela, at least in public but I assure you, my ire is slow in dying even though I’m finally free of that bitch’s brimstone tainted arrangement.”

Grissom joined him at the rail, thinking back to the yearly November farewells and February welcome backs, the many lonely Christmases apart with a melancholy pang. Alex and his mother had lived nine months together and three away from each other for nearly three decades, all in the name of a love that thrived against the odds.

Despite Lady Pamela’s refusal to divorce Alex, despite the annual 90 day residency requirements for British citizenship, despite the snide commentary of the tabloids, they’d hung on, and made a life together out of what they had, and Grissom had to admit that it worked most of the time. They were definitely two halves of a whole, and had been so for as long as he’d seen them together.

Alex stopped and shot a keen look at Grissom “Out with it,” he demanded softly. 

Grissom grinned, blinking. “Just wondering if you two are going back to California, or England after the honeymoon.”

Alex took off his glasses and made a point of cleaning them with a handkerchief from his breast pocket as he replied. “No more England, Gil. I’m putting Marstone House on the block. My home, my heart is with your mother and the dogs. THAT will make quite a scoop for Bernard, eh?”

Before Grissom could make a reply, the doors to the balcony opened and Trevor cleared his throat. By his look it was apparently time, and both men followed him back into the gallery.

Guests were arriving, greeting Alex with handshakes and hugs as appropriate. Grissom wandered into the Dainer Alcove where the chairs had been set up and the flowers displayed. Charlotte followed him, circling his steps. He glanced around, taking in the minimal yet elegant décor and let his thoughts wander into interesting territory.

In the ladies lounge of the Bellacova, Olivia pulled out a notebook and scribbled hastily, handing the paper to Sara. _I HAVE to ask—has Gil actually moved into Doreen’s house? If so, that’s wonderful news. He loves that house, but ever since her murder, I didn’t think he’d ever have the heart to stay there—_

Startled, Sara looked up and tried to compose herself, but it wasn’t easy, not with Olivia’s bright blue eyes on her. She swallowed hard. “Uh, yes, he’s been there for a couple of months now . . . He seems happy with it . . .” She stammered back.

Olivia scribbled something else on the paper and shoved it over, then looked in the mirror and fussed with her bangs for a moment. _I’m so glad. Doreen adored him, and he took her death very hard. I urged him to sell the house, but he refused. At the very least he could have the garage torn down and rebuilt if it really bothered him, but I suppose enough time’s passed now. Lord, I am so NERVOUS!_

At that moment a pair of elegantly dressed women came in and fluttered around Olivia, kissing her cheek and making much of her, clearly old friends. Sara took the note and folded it, moving away to stare in the lounge mirror at her reflection, a myriad of confusion in her expression. After a few moments, she looked back at Olivia, gave her a wave and headed out again. She followed the trickle of guests until she reached the alcove and ultimately, Grissom.

He looked up and smiled, his gaze warm; Sara moved to his side and stood there next to him by the doorway. “Hey.”

“Hey,” he replied gently, “How’s mom?”

“Being fretted over by a flock of friends. Nervous but happy I think. And Alex?”

“About the same.”

They stood together for a moment, not speaking, simply enjoying the freedom of being openly affectionate. Sara leaned forward and rubbed her nose with his. “So you get to walk your own mother down the aisle? That’s a switch.”

“A privilege in this case, Sara, and one I’m pleased to do,” he replied in a low honest tone, his hands capturing hers, squeezing them lightly. “Mom and Alex deserve this.”

She nodded. Discreetly, the Trevor was starting to usher guests in and seat them so she patted Grissom’s arm.

“I guess I’ll sit on the bride’s side, huh?”

Grissom grinned and led her to the front, on the left side, leaning down to gently kiss her cheek. “Behave.”

“Don’t I always?”

“Actually . . .”

“---Grissom!”

“Well I could have gone with my original thought,” he intoned, straightening up.

Sara arched an eyebrow at him, demanding, “Which was?”

“Take notes,” he whispered over his shoulder as he walked back down the aisle to the doors of the alcove. Sara was too stunned to react quickly, turned only to see him disappear around the corner. She fought the hot little tickle in her stomach, and tried to settle down, but it took a while.

Grissom grinned to himself as he looked along the gallery hallway, knowing full well that getting the last word with Sara was not only a coup, but also fun. It was hard to catch her off-guard, and hinting at his intentions made little victories all the sweeter. He checked his watch, noting they had almost six hours until the two of them went on duty.

“This way, sir,” Trevor motioned gently, and Grissom followed him to the section of hall outside the ladies room. His mother waved him in, and gingerly, Grissom stepped in, trying not to react to the incongruity of his surroundings.

//You look wonderful. Are you ready? // He signed, searching her face. She nodded, biting her lip, big eyes blue and bright.

//God help me, yes. // Came the simple emphatic response. Grissom bent to kiss her forehead while he rubbed her back; his lopsided smile supportive.

//Come on then—//

He looped her arm in his and they stepped out of the bathroom, heading for the alcove. Grissom tried not to notice how short his mother seemed, how frail the little hand resting on his forearm was now. With each step she grew more confident, and by the time they reached the doors she was striding easily. Waiting just inside them, the three dogs looked up; Lionel snuffled; Charlotte wagged her tail.

The assembled friends numbered no more than twenty, and they rose by tradition at seeing Grissom and Olivia at the door. There was no music, but a gentle nod from the priest at the head of the room was enough, and with stately dignity they stepped forward in the slow, measured steps down the aisle. Grissom felt tightness in this throat he hadn’t expected. He kept his gaze forward, and let it flicker to Sara only when he passed her. She smiled.

Grissom brought his attention back to his mother and Alex. With simple dignity he reached for the older man’s hand, gripping it tightly, feeling the elegant strength of it as he gently placed it over his mother’s hand. In front of him, their palms slid together, fingers interlacing tightly in a move so intimately familiar and sweet that Grissom found himself forced to look down.

He moved to step back, but Alex cleared his throat, and gestured with one shoulder to his right. Stunned for a second, Grissom hesitated, and then understood. He moved next to Alex and breathed in deeply as the priest smiled.

His fingers moved in fluid grace, echoing the words as the familiar phrases rang out through the alcove. “Dearly beloved, we are gathered this afternoon in the presence of God to witness this holy union . . .”

*** *** ***

The beeper was in vibrate mode, and Grissom grimaced as it thrummed against his thigh. Grateful it wasn’t rattling against his testicles he fished it out and checked the number.

Brass.

With a sigh, he rose and walked over to Sara, who was sitting and chatting with his mother and the dogs and bent down to whisper in her ear. “Duty calls. Stay until your shift starts and I’ll see you then.”

She turned to look up at him, eyes questioning but he shook his head. “Stay and enjoy yourself--I’ll call you if something big is up,” it came out sounding suspiciously suggestive, and Sara smothered a giggle. Olivia arched an eyebrow and Grissom shot her a look back, daring her to comment. They both smiled, unable to keep up the stare down.

Olivia rose and moved to hug her son. “Work?” she guessed correctly.

Grissom sighed and nodded. He squeezed her again and brought his big hands up, gestures swift and economical. //I have to go, but please make sure Sara has a ride in tonight. Are you and Alex staying in town long? //

//Honeymoon suite at the Luxor for a day or two, and then we’re off to Chicago to see your uncles. They’re determined to beat Alex at five card stud now that’s he’s officially in the family. // Came Olivia’s reply, her beautiful ring flashing. 

Grissom snorted. //Fat chance. //

//I know, but it’s so much fun to see them lose their money trying. And Gil, dear, have you considered how big Doreen’s house is? // Olivia batted her eyes, trying to look both helpful and bland. 

Grissom cocked his head, his gaze boring into that of his mother’s. //Big, mom? //

//Well yes—plenty of room there for two people. THREE even, if one of them is very small---//

Grissom captured her flying fingers and gave them a squeeze, his mouth straightening in a firm line that didn’t match the glint in his blue eyes. He risked a look at Sara, who shrugged to indicate her cluelessness.

Very carefully, he released his mother’s hands and held a warning finger up almost under her nose. Slowly and carefully he signed. //One thing at a time. I have to go, but I’ll try to see you before you two take off. Love you, Mom.//

A quick kiss to her temple and he was gone, heading out of the gallery and dialing on his cell phone for a cab.

Brass met him at the doorway of a small ramshackle house in the outer fringes of Henderson. He eyed the dark suit with surprise. Grissom offered no explanation, merely looked at him.

“Classy date, or funeral,” he guessed. Grissom gave him a patient sigh, and the other man gave up, his expression becoming slightly graver as he motioned to the house. “We’ve got quite a few bodies in there, and the freak element is over the roof on this one. Kitchen, but we’ve cordoned off the whole place. The rest of the team’s coming, but I don’t suppose you want to wait . . .”

The last was said to empty air; Grissom was already at the door, nudging it open. He looked at Brass, who handed him a pair of latex gloves. “You owe me.”

“Bill my office,” Grissom commented, stepping into the house. He noted the cracked linoleum, the general shabbiness with a faint melancholy. In the air was a faint smell of something familiar, a slightly spicy, slightly yeasty scent. He moved through a living room noting the stained faded carpet, the sofa repaired with duct tape, the battered feel to the entire place and moved forward, the smell stronger now.

The kitchen was a large room at the end of the house modeled in the Fifties and untouched since then, the tile and chrome décor all original to the place. Someone had been getting ready for Thanksgiving early, and Grissom identified the scent as stuffing, heavy on the sage. A large bowl of it sat on a corner of the table, half empty. The herb scent wasn’t quite enough to mask the sharper coppery smell of blood hanging in the air, and Grissom let his gaze travel over the little bodies sitting in the pans neatly arranged on the rest of the tabletop and on several of the counters.

Brass came up near Grissom’s shoulder and sighed. “Stuffed turkey I can understand, but stuffed prairie dogs? Stuffed rats? Stuffed possums? It’s like a Deliverance Thanksgiving in here.”

Grissom’s face twisted in wry acknowledgement of Brass’s words; he gave a sigh and pointed at a pan near the back door. “That one’s a catfish— ‘stuffed to the gills’ I guess.”

Brass snorted. “Well it’s enough to drag me to the tofu side for a while. I’m getting the rundown on the owner and residents now, but I wanted you on the scene before we start anything else. Catherine’s on her way.”

“Thanks,” Grissom absently responded, already lost in the scene. Brass left him to it and walked back outside, checking the time and shaking his head.

“Stuffing. Why did it have to be stuffing?” he muttered to himself.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter Two

 

Catherine arrived, toting two kits and looking slightly harassed. As she walked through the living room and into the kitchen she wrinkled her nose. “Nice suit, overkill on the sage dressing and what the holy HELL is up with the stuffed animal collection?” she demanded, looking around the kitchen. 

Grissom shot her a glance and went back to lightly prodding the dead, skinned prairie dog in the nearest pan. “Thank you, I prefer sausage or cornbread myself, and I have no idea yet,” he responded looking eagerly to the kit.

Catherine unpacked it and let him fish for the large tweezers while she donned gloves and looked around. “So—I count eleven animals all dead, all stuffed, and what? Ready to pop in the oven?”

“The oven was on but we turned it off for safety reasons," Grissom responded, fishing a long curly grey hair off of the animal.

Catherine handed him a bindle and continued looking around. “Any utensils?”

“Sink’s full of them. We’re smelling the garbage disposal, which probably has the eviscera clogging it.”

“Charming. Gil, what’s going on?”

“The call came in about six hours ago. Apparently a political canvasser showed up and found the door open. He walked in and discovered the kitchen like this and called the police. So far it’s just an animal control issue, but given the deliberate nature of the scene we’re processing it as a crime.”

“It’s got a ritualistic feel to it, yeah,” Catherine agreed cautiously.

They worked in tandem, collecting trace evidence consisting mostly of hair and items for prints. Catherine checked the garbage can and found the stuffing boxes, fishing them out carefully. “That reminds me—can I talk to you about Thanksgiving?” she muttered, looking up at him. 

Grissom was dusting a cupboard knob and nodded absently.

“Lindsey and I are going out of town this year. It’s the first holiday since Eddie died, and I just don’t want to do anything traditional, you know? So my sister and I are taking the kids to my mom’s, in Montana.”

“Sounds like a good idea,” Grissom murmured softly.

Catherine shot him a mournful look. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. I’m pretty sure I can swing alternate plans, Cath. You and Lindsey need the change of pace, so don’t worry about me. I’ll be fine.”

“You sure?” she asked softly, relieved and guilty at the same time. 

Grissom shot her a smile. “Positive.”

“Okay then,” she muttered, slightly piqued at his nonchalance. While having Grissom over for Thanksgiving wasn’t exactly a tradition, she’d come to enjoy someone around to share a glass of wine with, and the last three years had been good. She moved to the sink and fished out the topmost knife, noting the grease smears on the handle. “So what are you going to do instead? Work?”

“Actually I may be going out of town this year myself. We’ve got more than enough volunteers for the overtime coverage this year,” Grissom replied absently. He flashed a light through the cupboards and added, “Poor grade canned goods, mostly vegetables. Generic cigarettes.”

“Low income pantry,” Catherine confirmed as she took a sample of the dishwater. They worked efficiently throughout the kitchen, collecting samples from every surface and item they could think of, and an hour later, Catherine rubbed her eyes and sighed. “Okay, we can get all this back to the lab and I’ll make the prints here a priority. I will tell you this though—whoever prepped these animals knew what they were doing, foodwise.”

Grissom nodded. “Agreed—the eviscerations seem clean and in keeping with cooking, such as it is.”

“Granny Clampett cuisine,” Catherine snickered. She shot Grissom one last lingering look, gaze taking in the dark ensemble with something akin to appreciation. He followed her stare. “I can-NOT get over the suit. And you’re wearing cologne. This is suspicious, Grissom. Who is she?”

He cocked his head, eyes bright. “An older woman. Very special.”

Startled, Catherine looked up at his face while they walked out of the house. “God! We’re almost having a personal conversation here! Next thing you’ll be telling me she’s seen you naked.”

“Ah, but she has,” he confessed, “More than once.”

Catherine stopped mid stride, flabbergasted. Grissom sailed by blithely, almost reaching the car before she came after him. “I can’t believe you just SAID that! You ARE Gil Grissom, right? Not some alien clone from a crashed saucer out in the desert,” Catherine muttered.

He gave her a patient glance. “What’s more upsetting—that I spent private quality time with an older woman, or that she’s seen me without clothing?”

Catherine struggled with that question all the way back to the lab.

*** *** ***

Sara looked at the fingerprints with a shared sense of satisfaction; next to her, Jacquie blew on her nails and buffed them on her lapel, smirking. “A palpable hit in under eight seconds—almost a lab record if I DO say so myself. Our garbage gourmet was in the armed forces. Honorably discharged Army Ranger by the name of Staff Sergeant Truman Ibarra.”

Sara picked up the sheet from the printer and flashed a slightly distracted smile at the other woman. “Excellent—I’ll see about pulling up his records. Thanks, Jacquie.”

“No problem, I got my game ON tonight,” the plump tech replied, turning to the next request sitting in the basket. Sara wandered out to a free station in one of the alcoves off of Trace and logged onto a computer. As she settled herself onto a stool, Catherine peeked in.

“Hey. You got our boy?” she mused softly. Sara shifted to let her come over and look on the screen. On it, a young, cleft chinned blue-eyed man squinted out from his ID photo, looking pensive. Sara frowned.

“He looks sort of familiar,” she muttered.

“Hmmm---” Catherine studied the photo carefully. “Well it’s pretty old—taken in 1972, so almost thirty-four years have gone by, but I know what you mean. He does look like someone I’ve seen before.”

Before they could begin to look at Truman Ibarra’s record, Greg bounced into the small alcove, grinning like a boy with a secret he was dying to share. “I’ve got some interesting information about the All Creatures Great and Stuffed case for you ladies.”

Catherine looked over her shoulder at him, trying not to grin at his enthusiasm. He took that as a sign to continue. “Blood on the critters and pans proved to belong to said animals. However, the blood on the kitchen table and knives is human, two distinct types, A positive and AB positive. Further, the grey hair proves to match the A positive, and it’s male.”

“Ibarra here is A positive, so he’s got to be source number one,” Sara pointed out, scanning down the data file. 

Catherine nodded and looked at Greg, who was still standing there, expectantly bright-eyed. “Very good—so far. Now we need a crime. As far as we can tell this guy could have cut himself while pulling a Julia Child on Chip and Dale here. We don’t have evidence of a crime, just odd eating habits.”

Everyone sighed; Greg slunk away. Sara crossed her arms and continued to stare at the military record on the screen. “Into the Rangers at nineteen, three tours of Vietnam , covert training and special missions in Central America , then he’s admitted to a VA hospital for unspecified injuries. Discharged in the mid-eighties. So—possible mental instability combined with knowledge of weapons and survivalist skills. This isn’t looking too good.”

Catherine sighed, and leaned closer to look at the mid-sized photo. “He looks like he could be Grissom’s older brother.”

“No.” But even as the words left Sara’s mouth she could see the hints of similar features on the face.  
Catherine shook her head in amusement. “Hey, I’ve only seen one photo of Grissom from when he was younger, and this guy’s close—Geez! The second doppelganger in Vegas this year. I wonder when I’m going to run into MY copy out there.”

“Get out, he does NOT look like Grissom. The eyes are too close and the haircut’s all wrong. Besides, Ibarra is a Hispanic name, and you have to admit, Grissom is pretty WASP.”

“Oh yeah, but I never said he was an exact clone or anything—he just has some similar features. And anyway, it’s been three decades since this shot was taken. For all we know he could be bald, or fat or whatever.”

Sara nodded; Catherine hit the print button, and then turned to her. “Speaking of three decades, I think Grissom’s seeing someone—finally.”

Keeping her gaze on the printout, Sara prided herself in keeping her reaction to a shoulder shrug. Catherine nudged her. “Come on, Sara—" she urged softly. When Sara finally met her gaze, Catherine’s expression was laced with compassion.

“What?”

“What? Don’t give me that. I’m not blind, okay? I just think maybe you ought to make your move soon if you don’t want to lose him. Grissom’s pretty clueless, but I’m not.”

Catherine gently patted Sara’s shoulder in gentle reassurance. Sara struggled to keep her expression neutral. ”Catherine,” she began carefully, “What makes you think Grissom’s . . . dating?”

The redhead rolled her eyes. “The signs are there—he’s cheerful, he remembers to do his paperwork, and tonight, he told me . . .” Catherine paused. Sara struggled not to smile and kept looking at her.

“He told you what? Something about the way he was dressed?”

“He--mentioned he’d just spent some time with a woman,” Catherine edited carefully, sighing. Sara simply nodded, and turned her attention back to the printout.

“So that’s it? You’re just going to leave it at that?”  
Catherine asked softly, torn between frustration and concern.

Sara looked up at her. “The man has a right to see whomever he wants. And he’s my supervisor, Catherine. That’s a pretty big obstacle to changing the status quo, even if I wanted to try.”

Catherine shot her a wry look and shook her head. “Look, if you’re worried about biased evaluations, get Ecklie to do it—hell, even I could sign you off if it came right down to it. My point here,” she lowered her voice and moved closer to Sara, “Is that whoever this woman is, she’s not YOU. I’ve watched the two of you for the past four years and believe me, THIS is where the chemistry is.”

Sara closed her eyes, and Catherine, mistaking it for frustration, patted her shoulder again. “Personally, I think you ought to go for him.”

“Ya think so?” Sara choked out.

“Absolutely. I’m a woman, nothing gets by me,” Catherine reassured her colleague.

*** *** ***

Brass looked at the woman on the other side of the interrogation room table and managed a faint, patient smile. The woman was having none of it. She was thin and coal black, her hair braided in a tight cornrows streaked with white at the temples, and deep lines bracketed her mouth. Her eyes were large and luminous though, and her voice had the huskiness of a die-hard smoker. She wore a beautician’s smock over her thin frame.

“I’m sorry I didn’t get back sooner, but I’m tellin’ you it was an accident, detective. Tru didn’t mean to cut me, all right? He was upset, and I was tryin’ to take his knives and we both got a little careless. I had to go take him out before he got hurting himself again.”

“Mrs. Marsaille,” Brass began, but the woman shook her head and coughed into one thin fist, her full lips smiling.

“Call me ‘Vive. It’s shorter and you won’t mangle it as badly,” she dryly suggested.

A little miffed, Brass began again, trying to ignore Grissom’s quick glance of mild amusement. He looked over at the woman and spoke once more. “All right, ‘Vive. We know you own the house and Ibarra has it listed with the VA as his current address. So what did you argue about? And where is Ibarra now?”

Her eyes softened and she looked over at Grissom, as she had repeatedly during the interview, studying his features. “We didn’t argue. Truman just had one of his fits. They come on every couple of weeks, and they get so bad that if he doesn’t get out to the desert quick he’s no better than a baby, wetting himself and not all there in the head. He was fixing us a week’s worth of dinner when it hit him.”

“A week’s worth—‘Vive, does Truman hunt—animals?” Grissom asked softly.

She turned, meeting his eyes and nodding. “Oh yes. His pension goes for his migraine medication, not that it helps all that much, and my paycheck goes for the taxes and upkeep of the house. ‘Tween us, food is sometimes hard to come by, and my Truman isn’t a little man. So he goes out and gets the animals don’t nobody miss. Things my granny taught me to cook, squirrels and doves and such.” She paused and lifted her chin proudly. “But no dogs or cats, if that’s what you’re thinking. Me and Truman don’t do THAT. Just the wild things.”

No one spoke for a moment, and then Grissom laid his hands on the table. In a soft voice he asked, “He has fits? Epilepsy?”

‘Vive spoke slowly, staring at the gauze bandage on her skinny forearm, the words tumbling forth reluctantly. “No. Not that kind. He has too much noise in his head. Something from long ago when he was in the Army. He says they gave him things they wanted to test, and now he hears everything too much. When it builds up, it gets in the way of his breathing and thinking and he has to go to the desert for a while. He’s been like that ever since I’ve known him, so I don’t know about if the story about the CIA is true, but the rest of it is. He goes out in the desert for a few days or a week and the wind calms him down.”

Fascinated, Grissom cocked his head, his gaze never leaving the woman on the other side of the table. 

Brass gave a little, almost pained sigh. “The desert calms him down? And you just . . . leave him there?”

“He insists. And I’ve seen how it helps, more than the medicine ever did. After a few days he comes home and he’s fine until the next time. Usually Tru knows when it’s coming. It just hit fast today,” ‘Vive added, shooting a pleading look at Grissom.

His expression was thoughtful. “Hypersensitivity to noise is a common reaction to quite a number of medications, although Catherine and I didn’t find any in the house.”

“It’s not the migraine medicine he takes now that’s got his head full of noise, it’s the stuff they gave him a long time ago back in Fort Stewart . Look, can I go home? Truman’s gonna be coming back in a few days and I need to BE there,” ‘Vive pleaded huskily.

Brass looked at Grissom, shrugging. “Technically, killing vermin isn’t a crime, and if no assault charges are filed--”

‘Vive climbed to her feet and smiled, while Brass stepped back, watching her. As she passed by Grissom she stopped and looked up at him once more, her expression slightly haunted. “You know, you sort of look . . .” she began, then shook her head and walked off through the doors.

“It’s kind of sad—they’re the people who fall through the cracks of society’s systems. From what I could gather there’s a ultra restricted file on Ibarra covering two years of his life back in the mid seventies,” Sara murmured, looking at Grissom. 

They were in his office compiling the report on the Ibarra case after collecting the last statement from Ms. Marsaille, who was waiting up the hallway in Brass’ office for a cab. Grissom had his jacket off and his shirtsleeves rolled up; Sara took a moment to flash him a grin. 

Lowering her voice she added, “By the way--Catherine is convinced you’re seeing someone. She’s been giving me some . . . advice.”

Grissom looked over the tops of his glasses at her, his gaze intently focused, his mouth twitching slightly.“Concerning--?”

“Us. You and me. She thinks I should make a move on you before you get too serious about this other woman of yours.”

He took a moment to consider that thought, leaning back in his chair. Sara watched him, her gaze dark and wary. She was all too aware of the glass walls around them, of the casual flick of glances their way, so she turned away from him and paced to the shelf of jars, studying the nearest one. 

Grissom sighed. “Well, usually she’s better than I am when it comes to people. If she thinks you should seduce me, then . . . you probably should. Might be best for everyone concerned.”

Sara didn’t have to look over her shoulder to know Grissom was squelching down a smirk; it was apparent in the light blandness of his voice. She picked up a jar with a preserved two-headed scorpion in it, turning around and examining the dead creature through the glass side.

“Oh I don’t know if I could. I’m bound to be depressed by the news of you knocking boots with someone, Gris. And maybe a little . . ."

“—Jealous?” Intrigued, he rose from his chair and stepped towards her, reaching for the jar. Grissom eyed her through it, his gaze speculative and slightly risqué. “Interesting. I’ve never seen this side of you.”

Sara blinked and lowered the jar, looking at Grissom intently, her big eyes soft and velvety. “Grissom—"  
Whatever she was going to say died on her lips as her gaze moved beyond him and to the figure shambling past the doorway of the office. He followed her stare and as he looked, the other man looked back, hesitating a moment in the hall.

“This were Genevieve at?” came his hoarse voice, thick with suppressed pain.

Grissom moved, reaching the doorway, shaking his head. “No, she’s down in three-twenty-eight. Can I help you?”

The other man met his glance, eyes widening for a moment, and Sara slowly shifted to Grissom’s side, staring.

The man was a bit taller than Grissom, with a leaner, olive-toned face, but the same blue eyes and cleft chin. The mustache he wore was thick and full, biker style, and his hair hung in long grey shaggy ringlets to his shoulders. On his lanky frame he wore a faded flannel shirt of black and green, tucked into ragged but clean jeans. His threadbare fleece vest was tattered, his belt buckle touted the logo of Budweiser, and his cowboy boots were well-scuffed.

“I’m here to take her home. She okay? No trouble?” the questions were slow but serious, his voice a rough timbre and the faintest of Hispanic accents.

“She’s not in trouble, and neither are you, Mr. Ibarra,” Grissom reassured him. At the sound of his voice the other man cocked his head in a gesture so familiar to Sara that she gasped. 

“ _Orale._ Why . . .?” he started to ask, then closed his eyes, obviously in pain. Grissom shot a look at Sara, who understood. She scooted past them and into the break room, grabbing a paper cup to fill it with water. She came back quickly enough to hear Grissom speak again.

“ . . . Animals and a few traces of blood. Given the circumstances we thought it best to process the scene as a crime until the evidence told us otherwise.”

Ibarra nodded tightly, and when Sara handed him the water he took it gratefully, swallowing most of it in a few gulps. “Thanks. Blood’s hers and mine. We had an accident.” So saying, Ibarra waved the palm of his left hand, revealing two long gashes, one across the inside of all four fingers, the other parallel to it along the heel of his hand. He was trembling, Sara noticed, and his right eye was terribly bloodshot. 

Grissom studied the callused palm, nodding. “You grabbed it by the blade when she wrestled the handle from you,” he stated.

Ibarra nodded. “’Vive saved me from me again. Listen, I need to see her, _comprende_?”

“ _Si_ ,” Grissom replied, leading the way down the hall. Sara brought up the rear of the group, catching the startled looks through the glass walls of various offices and labs as people watched them pass.

Obviously the resemblance wasn’t all in her imagination, Sara realized.

They reached Brass’s office, and Grissom opened the opaque door after receiving a reply to his knock. Sara watched ‘Vive Marsaille rise and rush over to Ibarra, hugging him tightly. “Tru! Oh lord honey, you need to be in the hills right now, what are you doin’ here?” she chided him. His grip around her squeezed tight, and he pressed his cheek to hers in a quick intimate gesture.

Brass joined Grissom and Sara at the door, studying the scene carefully. “Our missing man."

“He wasn’t missing, he came back,” Sara pointed out. “As if he knew there was a problem.”

Grissom nodded, his expression puzzled as Ibarra reluctantly pulled away from ‘Vive and ran the back of his hand under his nose. A faint trace of blood streaked his knuckles. “I hitched back in because I felt trouble. We gotta go though, _dulce mio_. Shakes are coming,” he warned, shooting a glance at Brass, who held his hands palm up, in an appeasing gesture.

“Hey, no charges, no case. Free to go.”

“Thank you.”

“ _Gracias_.”

With mumbles and apologetic looks, Ibarra and ‘Vive squeezed past Sara and Grissom, holding hands as they walked down the hall. Faint sounds of their conversation drifted back. “—Better, I’ll bring you back some rattler this time, _Mija_.”

“You will NOT, Truman Javier Ibarra! I HATE those damn snakes and you know it. They do NOT taste like chicken, no way!”

“Do too.”

“Do NOT.”

“Okay, okay ‘Vive—maybe some lizards?”

Sara watched them go, her stomach tense. She caught Brass’s gaze and nodded; they both glanced at Grissom, who looked—

\--Slightly lost and bewildered.

“You know he looked like you,” Brass pointed out.  
Grissom winced a little, nodding.“I did pick up on that, yes,” he replied.

Sara shifted her gaze back to the detective, who gave a faint sigh, adding, “You don’t have any relatives you don’t know about, do you?”

Grissom swung around, mouth in a wry twist of a grin. “Now that doesn’t make ANY sense. How could I know about them if I didn’t know about them, Jim? I don’t have any brothers or sisters, but statistically, there’s only a one hundred percent certainty of that on my mother’s side.”

Sara reached out to touch his shoulder.

At that moment, Nick hurried up to them, a paper in his hand. “Grissom! I got a match to those hiking boots in the Noda case."

 

*** *** ***

The shift was finally over.

Sara moaned at the sweet deft touch of Grissom’s hands on her shoulders. They were big and firm, rubbing the tension right out of her, and heating her through their palms. She closed her eyes and rode on the wave of relaxation gently radiating out from her neck. Grissom stepped closer and breathed in her ear. "How’s this for a first step in seduction?”

“Totally excellent. I am putty in your fingers at the moment,” Sara confessed in a low tone. “If I were a cat, I’d be in your lap right now.”

“Oh, I think I could handle petting parts of you for a long time,” he replied in a serious tone. They stood in the parking lot under the sodium arc lights, huddled near Sara’s Accord.

She looked over her shoulder at him, eyes soft again as she smiled. “It’s Saturday,” she pointed out, hoping that despite the long shift he might figure out what she meant. He gave a nod, encouraging her to continue. The wind blew around them and through the chain link fence, making a cold, lonely sound as it whistled between the cars.

“And the week is over,” he sighed, never letting his gaze leave hers. She tensed again, but Grissom’s fingers softly kept kneading and Sara gradually softened once more, giving a little moan of pleasure.

Grissom cleared his throat. “I’m sorry, Sara, but as an experiment it was—inconclusive. The timeframe was simply too short to make a projection about future happiness. Objectively speaking, I think a second experiment with a longer span would be the only fair way to assess our compatibility.”

Sara looked down at her shoes, her grin soft, her heart racing. Grissom leaned closer, adding, “And I don’t dare bring you back to the townhouse, Miss ClosetPeeker.”

“Miss ClosetPeeker?” Sara spun, her face a study in outraged amusement. 

Grissom lifted his chin smugly. “You heard me. I’m going to have to bribe you with one of those Advent calendars with little chocolates in it, aren’t I? Keep you occupied so that finely tuned evidence gathering brain of yours doesn’t spoil Christmas.”

Sara gave a chuff of annoyance, but Grissom lightly squeezed her shoulders and caught her gaze, his own glinting with a boyish mischief behind his glasses. “Look at it this way Sara—we can go home, and you can start trying to torture hints out of me for the next six weeks. I’m perfectly willing to suffer through all attempts to bribe me with encounters of a sexual nature.”

“I BET you are,” she muttered, her voice low as they both sensed someone else moving through the parking lot. Grissom let her shoulders go and shifted away from her carefully as Warrick lumbered past, barely glancing their way.

“Night,” Sara called. Warrick waved a hand and moved on.

Grissom dropped his hands in his jacket pockets.“So—do we . . . continue?”

She heard the quaver in his voice, the little sound enough to bring a prickle of tears to her eyes. She looked up and nodded emphatically. “Um, yeah. I have to agree that we can’t jump to hasty conclusions with insufficient data. We need more evidence. At least another week.”

“Just a week more?” the flat disappointment in Grissom’s tone echoed out, and Sara choked a wet giggle down.

She batted her eyes at him. “Wellll—someone keeps taking about Christmas as if it’s a done deal, and that’s hardly the case. I need—persuading.”

Grissom smiled. He shot a look around the empty lot, then leaned down and lightly brushed his mouth over hers in a faint, barely there hint of a kiss; for the first time in her life Sara understood what her mother meant as their auras blended for a moment, flaring bright and clear in the cold Nevada morning.


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter Three

 

From the doorway of the garage, Sara watched Grissom feed his ants, carefully setting tiny bits of melon into a Petrie dish with tweezers. He’d changed out of his good suit and into jeans; his faded grey sweatshirt bore the phrase, ‘Entomologists Bug Everybody’ in dark green letters. He was barefoot, something he seemed to prefer while padding about the house, and Sara took a moment to study him.

Grissom was losing some weight. She wanted to credit better cooking and eating habits, but couldn’t be sure. He wasn’t a glutton, and he got more than enough exercise throughout his night, and day she smiled to herself. Nevertheless he was a bit trimmer although his hair was getting longer, especially around the bangs. From where she stood, Sara noted the strong line of his broad back, the sweet curve of his exposed nape.

It was too tempting, and while he was bent over, fussing with the cover of the ant farm she pressed up against him, gripping his hips as she sprawled over his back.

“Hi,” she announced, leaning over his shoulder, practically lying on his back. She felt his body tense. He turned his head to look at her patiently.

“Hi. Welcome to my personal space. Move in, take over," he admonished, but his smile was bracketed by dimples.

“Don’t mind if I do. How are the ants?”

“On the verge of hibernating. I’m debating on whether to let them, or to set up a heater out here for them,” he told Sara as he slowly straightened up. She slid down a bit, enjoying the trapped warmth between their bodies. Grissom was marvelous as a radiator, and rarely objected when she parked cold feet on his, although he’d made her promise to warn him beforehand. She tightened her hug around his waist.

“Do you know you have one seriously sexy nape? I love it when you’re bent close studying something and I can look at it and think about kissing it," Sara purred, thinking Catherine would be pleased to know the effect of her words. Grissom looked over his shoulder at her, his expression mild even as his blue eyes flared.

“I wish—" he began and stopped himself, turning around in her embrace to look into her face. Sara made a soft little sound of encouragement while sliding her hands from his waist to his jean-clad ass. He gave a grunt of exasperated amusement and rubbed his chin on her nose, letting his beard tickle her there.

“It’s ridiculous.”

“Let me be the judge of that. I want to know what you wish, Gil.”

He gave an embarrassed sigh and looked around the entire garage as he spoke in a low, rapid tone.  
“Sometimes I wish I’d been a virgin for you. That I’d met you before I ended up nearly fifty years old with all these emotional issues embedded within my psyche, Sara. I wish I’d started my life with your love instead of catching it all so far down the road.”

Sara’s heart pounded. She blinked a little, aware of her mouth opening in surprise and unable to stop it. Inches in front of her, Grissom flushed, dropping his gaze to his own chest in a gesture so boyish and shy she felt her arms tighten in response.

“Grissom . . .” she whispered hoarsely to him, aware of the potent words about to come forth, “You ARE a virgin.”

His head shot up and he locked gazes with her; Sara’s expression was infinitely tender. She impatiently blinked away the sudden prickle of tears and spoke again.

“Your body and mind may have had some experience with love and sex, sure, but not your heart. Not the true you of you.”

Grissom looked as if he wanted to deny it, but all he could do was pull her closer to him, his big arms wrapping around her in a tight possessive hug.

“Emotional virginity?” he whispered back, hints of mournful amusement in his voice. Sara held on to him and buried her face in his warm neck, kissing the flesh there.

“In a way, yeah. You’ve never lived with anyone, never shared a toothbrush or mailbox," Sara pointed out as she held him, “So you’re going through a lot of firsts here babe. It’s bound to be a little scary.”

Grissom made a scoffing noise. “Not scary, intriguing. What you say is true of course, but I wish . . . I wish I still had some innocence to offer you.”

Sara let him go, gently and stepped back, eyeing him from head to foot.

“When you were innocent, Grissom, how clueless were you?” came her amused question. He cocked his head and turned away from her, busying himself with washing out the ant dish. She waited for a long moment, then, “Grrrrissom?”

He sighed noisily then mumbled to the ants.  
“Amazingly clueless, Sara. Until Mrs. Magnati I’d never seen a naked female body, not in the flesh anyway. Up to that point I had a general concept of sex that was supplemented by whispered information from cousins and older boys, and a lot of that information turned out to be wrong. After my defloration it was another four years until I blundered into another physical relationship, and that wasn’t anything I can look back on fondly.” His words echoed away, soft with bitterness.

Sara drew in a breath and put her hand on his spine.  
Very slowly she drew a circle on his sweatshirt, counterclockwise, feeling his back muscles flex under her touch.

She spoke up in a low, compelling voice, the sound of it echoing in the garage.

“We are turning back time here, baby. Ten years a circle," she traced another slow one, “taking you back—“ a third one, “—To age eighteen, emotionally.”

Grissom turned around, arching an eyebrow, one side of his mouth pulling up in a wry grin, but he said nothing. Sara batted her eyes at him, taking one of his hands in hers. “Hi Gil. God, I’m glad you could come over tonight. We’ve got the WHOLE house to ourselves,” she whispered dramatically.

Grissom gazed down into Sara’s upturned face, studying her features. He loved her nose, he decided, because it was pointed and elegant and it twitched whenever she was about to laugh.  
It was twitching now, although her eyes glowed with a whisky heat, and her mouth was pursed in a perfect kiss. Sara stood stock still, looking at him with compelling sweetness, and between them, unspoken, echoed the playful invitation.

Grissom tightened his grip around her cool fingers.  
“Oh excellent. Where are your parents?” he asked softly. Sara let out the breath she was holding and tugged his hand, leading him into the house as Grissom flicked the garage light off.

“Fogged in at the airport, and my brother’s still on that campout, so it’s just us tonight,” Sara improvised, leading him on through the house.

“Really,” Grissom murmured, letting himself be tugged along into the kitchen. Sara released him and pulled open the refrigerator, rummaging around inside it busily.

“Yep. We’re going to . . . bake cookies.”

Grissom paused while in the process of admiring her firm ass. He leaned over Sara’s back in a direct echo of her earlier move on him, and reached over her head for a beer.

“Only one—my dad keeps count of them,” she chided him, and Grissom dimpled a smile at that while he twisted the cap off.

“What kind of cookies?” he demanded curiously, playing along with a grin.

“Snickerdoodles. I don’t have any chocolate chips,” she replied, setting the egg carton and stick of butter on the counter. Grissom stepped back as she slammed the door shut again and spun around, reaching for him.

“So—miss me much?”

“Constantly,” came his honest reply. Sara seemed to approve of that, and slipped into a quick hug, managing to rub against him in a manner both lascivious and gentle. Grissom made a little ‘oofff’ sound as her hands cupped the front of his jeans.

“You ARE happy to see me," she snorted lightly as a faint flush crossed his face. He tried to look nonchalant, but it was damned difficult with Sara softly kneading the increasingly taut denim.

“Yes. Happy bordering on ecstatic if you don’t stop—“ he muttered, catching her wrists gently. She wrinkled her nose at him.

“I just like making sure you still like me,” she told him cheerfully.

Grissom deliberately rocked forward into her touch, pressing the stiff ridge of his erection against her caressing fingers.

“Absolutely. I like you. A lot.”

“Good. I have to go beat some eggs and cream some butter."

“Tease," he accused, taking a swig of beer and leaning against the counter. “This really IS the way it was when I was eighteen,” he added with a hint of glumness.

Sara moved along the drain board, mixing together the eggs and butter, adding the various other ingredients in a slightly clumsy fashion, interrupting herself every now and then to kiss Grissom. He watched her in fascination.

“Where’s your recipe?”

“It’s in my head—hand me that spatula will you?” Sara muttered. Obligingly he did, and she shoved the bowl at him, grinning.

“Your turn. Mix. Stir. Blend the ingredients to doughy perfection," she ordered. He gave her an eloquent look that she ignored.

“You’re a very pushy girlfriend.”

“And you’re my baking bitch, so get moving—HEY!!”  
Grissom had set the bowl down and scooped Sara up across one shoulder, hoisting her with all the finesse of a bag of peat moss. She struggled, mostly for show.

“At eighteen, I was working for my uncle Joe to build a college expenses fund. He had me hauling galvanized pipe bundles and full porcelain toilets. Probably the only time in my life I was muscular,” Grissom turned his head to kiss Sara’s denim-clad ass, which was conveniently close.

She wriggled. “Put me down!”

He considered it for a moment. “No.”

“Grisssom! If you want to get seduced you need to put me DOWN,” she laughed breathlessly, ducking her head to keep it from bumping the frosted overhead light. Sara still couldn’t quite process how easily he’d picked her up, couldn’t get used to the casual strength of his arms.

Grissom weighed the merits of her comment and slowly let her slide down the front of his body, fully enjoying the rub.

Sara sighed. “Were you like this when you were younger?”

He subtly seized the opportunity to slide his hands up under the back of Sara’s jersey, deftly unhooking her bra. She squeaked.

“No. This is a fantasy though.”

Sara gritted her teeth and twisted out of his grasp to return to the kitchen and the bowl of dough. Grabbing it up, she popped it into the fridge and turned to find Grissom looming over her again, looking distinctly predatory.

“Why are you putting the dough in there?” he asked.

Sara blew her bangs out of her face and replied, “It’s to get it good and stiff—"

The minute the words left her mouth Grissom’s mouth twitched; he shifted to crowd her up against the cool door of the icebox, thigh to thigh, chest to chest. “Really?”

Sara slid a long leg around his hip, nodding.

“Yep. Stiffness is good . . .” she informed him, and slowly leaned forward to kiss him, lips slowly parting under his.

She playfully resisted him. It was damned difficult not to yield to that hot and knowing tongue of his, to stay shy and coy under his soft swipes and delicious probing. Grissom never rushed a kiss and teased every part of her mouth. He nibbled the curve of her lips, sucked along the edges, and tenderly nipped the ripe fullness of her bottom one.

Sara melted a little against the fridge as he turned up the heat a few intense minutes later, his tongue gently stroking over hers, moving in a slow wet tango that left her entire body achy and sensitive. He was only using his mouth and yet she felt her thighs twitch with every kiss.

“Love your mouth,” Grissom growled, tenderly slurping her upper lip from corner to corner. Sara trembled a little bit.

“Mmmmmohyeahhhh. I love yours too," came her slightly slurred words. The taste of beer-tinged Grissom tongue was impossible to resist. He braced his forearms against the fridge and dove in again, his kiss a bit more ruthless. Sara felt a trickle of sweat run down her cheek as she suckled on his lips, feeling the scrape of his beard and not caring, not caring at all.

Finally, she pulled her face away for a moment, pleasantly dizzy as she whispered, “I thought I was seducing you, Mr. Eighteen year old Grissom."

“It’s a mutuality, Miss Eighteen year old Sidle. Damn near a combustibility.”

Sara laughed. Reaching around his ribs she tugged on Grissom’s sweatshirt, heaving it up and over his head, fluffing his hair out as she dropped it on the kitchen floor.

“Oops!"

“Sara!"

“Come on, nobody’s home," Carefully she pulled him to her, letting her tongue flick over his right nipple. His shiver encouraged her, and she concentrated, deliberately teasing it with teeth and lips while Grissom sucked in deep breaths.

“Uuuuuuuhhhhh . . . “ came his startled response. 

Sara slowly shifted her attention to the other one, letting her warm breath heat a trail across his pecs until her lips brushed the second stiff rivet. 

Grissom’s jaw clenched.“That . . . that feels . . .”

“Nice?” Sara whispered. Not quite trusting his voice he nodded. She smiled, kissing one nipple as her hand came up to let her thumb brush the other in a slow ticklish stroke.

“Got a sweet bod here, definitely ripe for love," came her comment. Grissom rocked a little on his bare feet, torn between the rush of arousal in responding to Sara’s touch, and the desire to utterly pounce on her. In the inertia, she nipped.

“Ah!” he blurted, shock stiffening his big frame. Sara giggled and licked his chest, blowing on the wet streaks to cool the skin.

“Mmmmmm, tasty . . .” she announced, letting her tongue cross his chest once again. Grissom reached up to grip the top of the refrigerator, his breathing erratic as her hands slowly stroked up and down his broad bare back. Sara drank in the magic of the moment, loving the taste, the feel of Grissom in her arms like this. Her hands slipped down into the loose gap between jeans and skin, sliding along the strong muscled curve at the top of his ass just inside the waistband.

“Sara . . .” Grissom managed through gritted teeth. She laughed happily at the sound of his discomfort, feeling the hard steel of his cock pressing against her thigh while she continued to nibble along his skin.

“I think things are getting pretty stiff now," came her soft observation. With gentleness, she slipped out from his embrace and tugged his hand, leading him out of the kitchen and towards the living room. Slightly dazed, Grissom followed her, catching his breath. Sara pushed him down the sofa then dropped herself heavily on him, driving the newly regained air from his lungs as she did so.

“This is how it GOES at eighteen," she burbled, straddling his hips; peeling her shirt and bra off and tossing them away. Under her, Grissom looked both startled and aroused, his bright blue eyes glittering in the sunlight filtering through the closed blinds of the house. Sara grabbed his big hands, bringing them up to her bare chest.

“Hey Grissom, were you a breast man? Hot for hooters, tempted by tits, motivated by  
. . . oohhhh!" she broke off weakly as his fingers cupped her curves, thumbs circling her erect nipples. She knew she had a fairly standard chest, firmly in the C cups but Grissom’s splayed hands easily cradled her breasts, moving softly over them.

“I harbor an appreciation of the entire woman,” he managed to growl. His hands lightly, lovingly kneaded the velvet weight of Sara’s breasts, caressing them warmly. She gripped his forearms to brace herself, giving in to the amazing pleasure of each teasing squeeze, and let her hair tumble around her face as she groaned.

Grissom rocked his hips up, lifting her easily, grinning. She caught his expression and it dawned on her that the look he wore was both boyish and naughty; a lovely rare glimpse of how he must have looked so long ago.

Sara tightened her grip and gave a wriggle to escape his clutches and stretch out on him, chest to chest in a kiss of warm skin.

“So your parents aren’t home. Aren’t you worried I’ll get you . . . into trouble?” he rumbled in her ear, a laugh in his voice. Sara looked at him and lifted her chin defiantly, shooting Grissom a smoldering look that apparently worked judging by his sudden shiver.

“We’ll be careful,” came her soft reply. He nodded, his hands still toying with her breasts. Sara rolled her head from shoulder to shoulder and licked her slightly puffy lips, looking down at Grissom and feeling very . . . eighteen.

“Can I . . . touch it?” she leaned down and breathed in his face. Eyes twinkling, he considered her request.

“I don’t know, Sara. It’s kind of . . . uncontrollable right now. A few good strokes and I’ll probably go off like a Titan missile. I don’t think your folks would appreciate come stains on the antimacassars.”

She laughed, reaching down for the top button of his fly, shifting her weight back on his thighs to unzip him.

“Oh come on, you let me play with it before . . .” she pleaded in just the right tone of voice to make Grissom groan a little. Her clever fingers deftly freed him from the thin cotton of his boxers and she squeezed the rigid shaft lightly.

“Gawd you’re a handful," Sara teased.

“Keep going and you’re the one who’ll end up with a handful,” he grunted back, his palms cupping hers as she slowly twisted a stroking grip up the length of him. Sara felt breathless at the sight of his cock, thick and hot, pulsing in her fingers with mulberry tinted heat. The edge of her hands brushed the wiry fur all around it, crisp and ticklish, and the rich scent of his musk rose up off his skin.

“I could jack you off, Grissom. Just play rough with this big thing of yours until you come, baby," she told him as she flashed a naughty grin at him. 

Grissom frowned, his chest heaving a bit.“Could, but won’t,” he gasped, tugging her hands away. Sullenly his cock thumped against his belly, leaving wet strands along the fur trail to his belly button. Sara dipped a finger into one and slowly licked it clean as Grissom, wide-eyed, watched her.

“Sara," he whispered, his eyes hot with lust. She reached for his hand, dipped it in the smear of precum and made a show of sucking it off his fingers.

“Nasty?” she asked sweetly in a low voice. He gave a deep sigh, his cock throbbing visibly. Sara kissed his palm, and then laughed giddily, savoring her moment of power.

“What would you do if I licked you?”

“Die of pleasure,” Grissom admitted honestly. He reached for her jeans, undoing them with less than steady hands. Sara was unhelpful, wriggling and playing with her hair instead of assisting him, and finally he simply tugged her down on him again, shucking her jeans off as she lay on him.

“Hey! Watch the rough stuff!” came her little snort. Grissom hooked his fingers along the edges of her thong and tugged hard. The cords snapped with a faint tearing sound. Sara stiffened.

“You TORE my underwear off!”

“Lust will not keep. Something must be done about it,” Grissom quoted with a grin, flicking away the edges of the material and massaging the firm cheeks of her ass. Whatever complaint Sara was going to make died away under the insistent caresses of his strong fingers. His fingertips circled around her patch playfully, and she rubbed her nose against his.

“Boy, for a virgin, you’re pretty direct about what you want, pal.”

“I’m motivated. I think we both need to overcome our high school reputations.”

“Science nerd turns ghostbuster?” Sara laughed softly. Grissom gave an exasperated groan and in a clear move of revenge began to pull her up the length of his supine body, getting a good grip on her long thighs; she tumbled over his head, chest pressing against his face as she gripped the arm of the sofa.

“Grissom!” came her gurgled protest. It died quickly as he eagerly opened his hot mouth around one of her nipples, tongue flicking it. Sara squirmed helplessly.“Jeeeeeesuuuuus!"

His arms wrapped around her back as he forced her to straddle his chest; Grissom nibbled, sucked and teased her breasts mercilessly. Sara’s fingers dug into the upholstered arm of the sofa as molten pleasure cascaded through her frame, building to an almost mindless need. She couldn’t focus on anything but the acutely sweet seduction of his mouth over her body; it took his voice to break the spell after a while.

“Higher . . .” he snarled, his hands pushing her ass up as his beard scraped her belly. Sara swayed as sweet shock jolted her. She knew what he wanted.  
“Ooh! You—“

“Yes. Now.” Grissom demanded in a low voice as he ducked a shoulder under her knee. Sara wasn’t prepared for the sudden stroke of his searing tongue right along the wet seam of her sex, of the hungry probe as it glided through her juiciness as his bearded cheeks scraped her sensitive inner thighs. She let out a wild little cry, trying to hang onto the sofa as his big hands clamped onto her ass.  
“OhmyGodohGod—“ she whimpered, lost as her body tensed, throbbed, plumped against his teasing mouth. Lovely wet suckling sounds rose up from between her thighs and Sara’s hips rocked in his hands, moving faster and faster against his taunting tongue.

She was ready. It didn’t take long.

“Ohhhfffuuuuuck!” came her throaty cry as she came in hot magnificent waves, pulsing with animal heat against Grissom’s mouth, feeling savagely wild as her head lolled forward and her chest heaved, nipples rock hard.

Sara slumped, but the same hands that had held her up now caught her, guiding her limp frame down against Grissom’s cool damp chest where she lay blind and senseless for long moments, hearing the hard beat of his heart through his ribs.

She raised her head weakly and caught a glimpse of him, shuddering as she did so. His hair was damp and tousled but he was smiling, cheeks glistening with her juice, his eyes the same bright blue found in the center of a flame.

“My God you’re noisy. Good thing your parents aren’t home.”

Sara dropped her face against his chest as the giggles leaked out of her, and as she did so she realized his cock was pressing hard against her stomach with iron insistence.

Gently she shifted her damp knees to straddle his thighs once more. Carefully she sat up, both hands caressing his cock. Grissom let out a low groan.

“That was good and you know it, but I don’t know what to do about this," she goaded him. He bit his lip as she ran a palm just over the broad leaking head. “I could just suck it off."

“Sara . . .” Grissom choked, his hips moving with every touch. She shook her head and rising up, pressed it against the wet curls of her sex, brushing it against her damp fur.

“I know! We can do it a little. I’ll let you put it in, buuttt you can’t come,” she offered. He glared at her, but his cock throbbed in her fingers, turgid and hungry.

“You were completely EVIL at eighteen, weren’t you? What kind of control do you think I can possibly HAVE at this . . ."

She pressed a hand to his mouth, hushing him, smiling. “Oh come on, Grissom. I know it’s going to be hard, but you won’t be a virgin anymore. Don’t you want to slide it in me?” came her husky plea.

He gritted his teeth and nodded, letting Sara shift herself over him, feeling the slick kiss of her cleft as she brushed the tip of his cock against her. Carefully she guided him.

“There. But just a little bit—“ came her coy request.

He thrust, stunned at the tightness. Sara bit her lip and closed her beautiful eyes. Grissom swallowed hard. He pushed a tiny bit deeper.

“Oh damn you’re kind of . . . BIG,” Sara muttered, and that pushed the limits of whatever restraint Grissom had. He thrust up, hard and deep, impaling her, sinking into that slick silky clench. Both of them groaned; Sara fell forward, grabbing his shoulders.  
“Oh! Damn that’s big and good, but don’t come, don’t COME—!"

Blindly Grissom clutched her hips, yanking her down on his hungry cock, delving into her with singleminded lust. His chest heaved and he strained into a strong rhythm, driving himself hard into her peach-sweet cleft.

“Sara, Jesus, so good, so fucking good, baby, I can’t . . . I . . ."

“Don’t you come in me you nasty boy, no!” she hissed back, her hips pushing back, corkscrewing against him with every stroke. He panted, stomach tensing as his body relentlessly drove forward, his hands practically slamming Sara down on the wet spike of his cock.

“I’m . . . GodSaraComingAhhhhhh!” Grissom howled, his big frame tensing as his hips lifted her. Sara’s nails dug into his shoulders as she clenched around him, feeling the thundering pulses deep within her, hot and seemingly endless. She clung to him, pressing kisses on his heaving chest as he slumped back, sated and lost in his afterglow, heavy hands locking across her back, holding her as if he would never let her go.

She never wanted to let him go either.

After a while, she turned her face up to look at him. He was looking back at her, not smiling and a little thread of fear spun through her. Sara risked a grin.  
“You okay?”

“No.”

“Oh God—what? What’s wrong? Did I do something--?”

He pulled her up and cut her off with a kiss. This one held none of the wild passion of moments before; instead it had a loving sweet reverence to it and Sara relaxed a little after a moment. “So—what’s wrong?”

Grissom gave a deep, troubled sigh. “I came. A lot, Sara. I mean, we are talking substantial quantities of potent seminal fluid. And you know what that means.”

“A wet sofa?”

“You’re probably pregnant. We’re going to have to do the right thing and get married.”

His words sent a giddy thrill through her entire body; Sara lifted her head and arched an eyebrow at him, trying for a straight face and not quite making it. He batted his eyes at her.

“What about college? And your career?” she blurted.

“We’ll manage. I’ll send you through first and then you can do the same for me. By then the offspring will be old enough to handle daycare. After that we can move to whatever city offers the best salaries and schools.”

“Grissom!”

”I know, I know, statistically teen marriages aren’t the most sound, but I’ll make sure you get an education and do my best to provide for you and the sprat. Never let it be said Gil Grissom didn’t do the right thing!"

Sara buried her face in his chest, trying to figure out if she was laughing or crying. It was hard to decide given the wet hiccup-filled nature of her reaction, and Grissom gently patted the back of her head.

“There, there—I’ll get you a modest little ring and we can probably find someplace to get hitched in this town so our youthful indiscretion won’t be too obvious although neither of us gets to wear white now.”

Sara laughed, throwing her arms around him and kissing his neck, tasting the sweat salt there as she squirmed to find a comfortable position on top of him.

“Okay, fine, you win the game, Uncle already,” she murmured into his ear. He chuckled, softly rubbing her back in long soothing strokes. For a long while they lay together, not speaking aloud, but simply savoring a body language older than time, sensory communication precious to lovers.

Finally Grissom cleared his throat and muttered something so softly that Sara had to strain to hear it.  
“I . . . would have done it, too, Acushla. In a heartbeat.”

Sara fought down the hard, almost painful pang in her chest and hugged him tightly, almost missing the soft chime of her cell phone. Ignoring it for a moment, she kissed his mouth in a hard deliberate peck. “I know. I love you.”

She leaned down for the phone, settling back in his embrace as she checked the number, then suddenly yelped. Grissom glanced at her, concerned. “What?”

“It’s my mother. Oh God. She KNEW!” Sara stared at the number on the tiny screen with resignation.

Grissom laughed.

Sara pushed the button and cleared her throat.  
“Sara Sidle here—“

“Oh you’re still awake girlchild, good. I wanted to ask if both of you are coming?”

“Coming?” Sara weakly echoed, far too aware of a trickle between her thighs. Grissom watched her face, his own vaguely amused under the damp iron grey curls framing his features.

“Yes honey, for Thanksgiving. We’d love to have your lover join us," Avra’s cheerful voice echoed through the phone.

“Mom . . .” Sara pleaded, looking at Grissom.  
He smiled back winningly.


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter Four

 

Eight days later on the Wednesday before Thanksgiving, Sara climbed into the taxi, her stomach full of hornets. For anyone else they might have been butterflies, but given her state of internal aggravation, the constant turmoil within could only be hornets. After tucking their suitcases into the trunk and closing it, Grissom climbed in next to Sara, looking slightly tense, but amused at her scowling expression. The driver, a thin black woman with bright pink lipstick looked over her shoulder at them both.

“Welcome! Where can I take you folks?” she inquired.

Sara sighed.“The Ocean Inn off of Stanford Boulevard please.”

“Good choice! We’ll be there shortly,” the driver assured them, pulling out and away from the tiny terminal. Sara glanced back at the Cessna field dully.  
“I thought the flight would be longer."

“You’re thinking of commercial flights. Private charters don’t have as much waiting time or as many added complications,” Grissom replied quietly. “And considering how hard it would have been to get anything else on such short notice we were lucky. I hardly ever get to use my connections.”

Sara tilted her head to look at him, a smile briefly crossing her features as she did so. He was wearing a navy blue sweater over a dress shirt, his good grey jacket and navy slacks. Even his loafers had been polished. Resting on his knee was a gift bag that held a tissue-wrapped bottle of wine of a vintage that was sure to appeal to her dad, and a small bouquet of dried flowers for her mom.

“You look like a total suck-up, you know that, don’t you?” Sara pointed out lovingly.

Grissom shot her a wry grin, eyes twinkling. “I have ulterior motives, so deal with it.”

“Pffft. My mom’s going to love you and my dad will check out your sports preferences then argue with you about every Cubs and Giants game ever played. Tom will ask me how much you make and if you’re divorced, and I have no idea what Sophie and Sam will think of you, if anything,” Sara replied, toying with the gold locket draped against her olive green corded sweater top.

Grissom’s mouth twisted slightly.

“I can live with a fifty percent approval rating as the starting baseline. Gives me something to shoot for over the course of time.”

“Downright Machiavellian of you,” Sara murmured, trying to sound disapproving. The taxi sped along the curving highway threading through the rolling hills covered with groves of Eucalyptus trees. 

Eventually they crossed over the topmost ridge, catching sight of the Pacific, endlessly panoramic in slate blue off to the left. The driver hummed under her breath, and Sara shifted uneasily.

“I don’t see why you’re nervous. They know you," Grissom pointed out. She rubbed her forehead with one hand, trying to think of exactly how to unburden herself.

“Gris, I’ve never brought anyone back with me before, okay? This particular phase is completely new to my family and me so bear with me here. We’ve got the next four days to get through, and I have no idea how any of it’s going to go. That’s making me just a LITTLE uptight.”

Grissom leaned back and snaked an arm around her shoulders, pulling her close so he could whisper against her hair.

“A little? I’m going to check the upholstery buttons before we get out of the cab, Sara.”

She rolled her eyes, but couldn’t help a quick grin, even as the cab turned onto Stanford Boulevard. The road paralleled the beach, and between the various craft shops and trees they could see Tomales Bay proper. Finally the cab hooked a quick left into a cul de sac and pulled up in front of a two-story blue and white clapboard house.

“Ocean Inn,” the driver announced pleasantly. 

Sara squared her shoulders and looked over at Grissom, shooting him a wry smile. “Ready for this?”

“Ah. The real question is, are you?”

Sara very maturely stuck her tongue out at him; Grissom ignored it and climbed out, helping the driver unload the bags. Taking a deep breath, Sara pulled herself out of her momentary inertia and the cab as well, looking up at the B&B as the scent of salt water filled the air.

The Ocean Inn stood proudly, if a little stodgily, on the far end of the cul de sac, a big Victorian with eight rooms, two living rooms, a massive kitchen and a wraparound porch. Sara could see the dangling wind chimes of driftwood and shells hanging from the corners of the porch, and the bits of green and blue glass embedded in the cement steps leading to the front doors. The clapboards were slate blue, the trim white, and two wreaths of sea oats and dried flowers adorned the glass doors.

The cab pulled away just as one of the doors opened, and a short, dark-haired girl in a flowered shirt and overalls came barreling out towards Sara.

“I win, I win!” she yelled happily, not quite able to slow her momentum as she plowed into her aunt. Sara rocked a little under the impact, but grinned widely, hugging the child in a good squeeze.

“Second year in a row, Soph, baby! I’ll tell Grandpa you get the lookout money fair and square!"

At the door, a boy appeared, taller than the girl, but with the same dark hair. He looked peeved. “No fair! I was in the bathroom!”

“You leak, you lose, Sam. Rules of the game pal!”   
Sara called to him. He made a face, presumably at his sister, and came trudging down the steps as Grissom watched the unfolding drama. Both children looked up at him suspiciously.

“Hi,” he offered mildly. The boy nodded; the girl blinked and slipped behind Sara, peeking out around one hip.

“Granny Avra says you’re a bugger guy,” the girl piped up. Looking suitably startled, Grissom managed not to laugh. Sara did, snorting as she slipped an arm around the child.

“Sophia Danielle Sidle, you introduce yourself nicely and find out who this really is.”

The girl came forward, extending a pudgy, less than clean hand to Grissom, who engulfed it with his own.

“My name is called Sophie. Who are you?”

“I’m Grissom.”

“Do you touch bugs?” she demanded suspiciously.

“Yes.”

“Ewwwww!” Sophie made a disapproving face while her brother shot Grissom a favorable look.

Grissom bent lower in a confiding way and added, “Sometimes I even eat some of them.”

“Gross!”

“Cool!”

Sophia backed up a step while Sam came closer grinning. Grissom shrugged, risking a look at Sara, who was hiding her smirk behind one hand.

“He promised not to eat any while he’s here, okay? Just go tell your dad we’re coming in,” she directed. Both kids clambered back up the steps, neatly dodging around the person just coming through the doors.

“Sara, darling!” Avra Sidle sang out, wiping her floury hands on her apron and gliding into a tight hug with her daughter. They were of a height, and Grissom saw that many of Sara’s sweet features came straight from her mother, most notably the big brown eyes and slim tall figure.

Then the woman turned to him, and in her sharp clear gaze Grissom felt a prickle of amused appreciation.

“Oh he’s so virile he GLOWS, girlchild. Definitely Alpha blue to the core!”

“Mom! Not now—!" came Sara’s hissed warning. She forced a smile and reached for Grissom’s arm, hooking hers around it as much for comfort as anything else. “Mom, This is Gil Grissom, Gil, this is my mom, Avra."

“I’ve been looking forward to meeting you,” he politely and honestly told her, holding out his hand. Avra, however, bypassed it and hugged him tightly; startled, Grissom let her, looking a little stiff as she laughed up at him.

“As have I, Gil, as have I. Welcome to Ocean Inn!”

Looking at Sara didn’t help; she flashed her famous grin and shrugged. “Did I forget to mention I’ve got a huggy, touchy feely family?”

“Ohhh," he weakly replied.

Avra pulled back and looked up at him again, blushing a little when she saw his discomfort.  
“Sorry Gil, but at Ocean Inn, no one’s very formal. Come in, come in and sit down! My you look nice, but you didn’t have to go to all the trouble, really—“

Chattering away, Avra led Grissom up the steps, never letting go of his arm as Sara watched them, a bemused expression on her face.

“Oh that’s fine, mom, go on in, I can handle the suitcases all by myself, don’t worry," came her mild taunt.

Avra waved a dismissing hand at her.“Now, now--Tom will be right out, don’t fuss so, Sara!”

Grissom found himself propelled through a large and airy foyer and into a sunken living room with a large stone fireplace at one end. The hardwood floor gleamed between various thick rugs, and a lovely scent of baking bread drifted on the air. He noted several seascape watercolors dotting the walls, a large and inviting bookcase, and comfortable overstuffed furniture arranged throughout. Avra led him over to a round table where a man sat piecing together what appeared to be a tiny picture frame out of pieces of seashell.

“Will, Sara’s sweetie is here.”

Grissom felt himself blush a little. The other man shot him a bemused look, his heavy silver mustache twitching.

“Sheesh, honey, if you introduce him like that it saps the testosterone right out of him,” came the grumble. Slowly, he rose, grasping the cane hooked on the edge of the table for support. He smiled into Grissom’s face, eyes direct and fearless, another Sara trait.

They shook hands, and Grissom felt the gnarled strength of the other man’s solid grip against his own.

“You’re Gil Grissom. Good. I’m William Sidle; call me Will. You any good with tweezers?”

“Actually, yes," Grissom nodded. 

Will gave a sigh of relief. “Good! I’ve been trying to get this damned mussel shell glued on, but it keeps slipping. Think you can grip it in place long enough for me to glue it down?”

Ten minutes later, Sara walked through the living room to find Grissom and her father both bent over the picture frame, speaking in hushed tones like a pair of surgeons on a delicate brain operation.

“There. Thanks for the assist.”

“Pleased to help. I take it the shells are local?”

“Yep. Avra picks them up for me from the tide line. I wash them, varnish them and sort them by species and size for easier use.”

“The frame is very nice,” Grissom observed. Will gave a little nod, but his expression was distracted as Sara came up behind him, laid gentle hands on his shoulders and kissed the top of his head.

“Thank you, but I’ve done better. It’s tough to get good frames these days. I usually make my own, but I got stuck with a store bought one this time. Sara--” he smiled up at his daughter. She studied the frame with a loving eye.

“That’s a nice pair of jackknife clams along the bottom," she commented. Will smiled, touching them softly. At that point the boy came barreling in, followed by Sophie, dashing up to the table.

“Grandpa, it’s not fair that Sophie gets the lookout money two times now!”

Grissom sensed amused gravity in the older man’s tone as he spoke patiently to the boy.

“Did she spot the taxi first, Sam?”

“Well . . . yeah, but I was goin’ pee!” Sam protested mulishly. Will reached over and squeezed the boy’s shoulder.

“Rules are rules. Next year you might win. Sophie?”

“Yeah?” the child looked up at him, beaming. Will snorted at her, reaching to tweak one of her ears.

“You won, but stop rubbing it in, little girl. You and I will settle up after dinner. Now you two go play on the beach while your grandmother gets dinner ready.”

Quickly the two took off again, clattering through the living room and out through various doors while Grissom watched them go. When he turned back, Sara and her father were looking at him.

“They’re a good pair. Tom’s got custody and he’s close enough to bring ‘em by regularly. You have any nieces, nephews of your own, Gil?”

Slowly, Grissom shook his head.

*** *** ***

The heat on Sara’s face could have ignited a forest. She clutched the edge of the doorframe, not looking at either her mother or Grissom as they all stood looking into the room.

It was cool and blue, with a décor that ran to fishnets and prints of sailboats on the walls; a tiny balcony opened onto the Pacific. Avra was speaking in confiding tones.

“ . . . Only one with a queen. I hope you two don’t mind. Dinner’s in half an hour, so I better go get the pasta boiling.”

“It’s lovely. Thank you,” Grissom politely told her, and she smiled, turning to head back down the hall. Sara weakly tottered into the room and dropped herself into the white wicker rocking chair, a hand over her face.

“I can’t believe she did this. My own MOTHER,” came the anguished moan. Grissom waited until Sara looked up again.

“I thought it was amazingly considerate and open-minded of her to give us a room together.” Grissom took off his coat and hung it up in the closet. “Frankly I was more than willing to sleep on a sofa bed,” he commented softly.

Sara shot him a lovingly exasperated look. Rising, she crossed the room and smacked her hand on the wall, making a dried starfish rattle. “It’s insidious, Gris. Yeah, we’re in the same room, but right next door are my parents, and on the other side, Tom. So while we’re allowed to sleep together, there is no real privacy here. The walls are thin, and from this point on it will be as if this room is wired for sound.”

Grissom slipped behind her, nuzzling her neck. She resisted for a moment, and then with a sigh tilted her head to give him better access as he kissed her under her ear. He whispered against her skin. “So out loud we’ll be boring, and in other matters we’ll be—discreet,” he assured her as his hands slid up over her sweater to cup her chest.

Sara squirmed, managing a lot of contact as her ass pressed against him. “I bet the bed creaks. Twenty bucks.”

Grissom wrapped his arms around her and marched her over to it, dropping with her onto the blue and white checked bedspread. The bed made a tiny noise of contracting springs as Grissom grinned. 

Gripping Sara, he turned, gave an experimental bounce and the frame creaked obligingly under them, a soft little sound that carried in the room.  
Sara burst into husky giggles. “I win and lose at the same time—twenty bucks please.”

“I didn’t accept your wager. And besides, it’s a tiny creak. Barely audible.”

“Sure you say that now, but once it starts making a rhythm that’s as good as announcing on a loudspeaker: Attention! People having SEX here!” she complained, but softly. Grissom felt good holding her, and she loved the scent of his aftershave.

He kissed her forehead. “So we go without intimacy for a few days,” he offered. 

Sara quickly, unthinkingly pouted, and he laughed at her expression.

“Sara,” Grissom chided, his ego gratified at her stubborn look.

“Get real,” she replied with a little sigh. “We couldn’t share a bed celibately now, not even if our lives depended on it. We’re acclimated to each other. Symbiotically settled. By Saturday we’ll be miserable. At least I’LL be miserable . . .”

“We can’t have that. We’ll just have to think outside the bed,” Grissom replied teasingly.

Sara blinked at him as all sorts of possibilities popped into her head, but before she could say anything, a hard rap on their door startled them both. Sam’s voice ragged and out of breath called through it.

“Sara! Grissom! Dad said to get you right away! We need you guys!” his youthful urgency was tinged with real panic, and hearing it, Sara shot to the door as Grissom followed her. They moved down the hall and curving staircase to the living room. Sam pointed at the big table.

“We found him by the big rocks! Dad says you’d know if he was going to be okay!”

Sara pushed her way to the table, looking down at the towel on the table, at her brother’s big hands cradling the little limp body under the overhead light. For a moment no one spoke. She bent forward, her chest tight.

Gently she picked up the kitten’s body, touching the matted orange fur and tiny white paws. She propped the limp little head up, trying to gauge the breathing. At the edge of the table, Sam and Sophie held very still watching, bursting with questions but wise enough not to interrupt. Avra slipped behind them, wrapping an arm around each child.

Grissom took the body from Sara and lightly turned it face down. Long trickles of water spilled out of the tiny open jaws onto the towel. He delicately pried one eyelid back enough to see the clouded nictitating membrane over the pupil.

He pursed his mouth. “Sam, I need to know exactly where you and Sophie found this kitten. Right now. Can you take me there?”

“Yeah!” The boy nodded.

Grissom looked at Sara and spoke in an undertone as he laid the little kitten back on the towel. “It’s dead, but the body is still warm. Get a box, a heat lamp or pad, any eyedroppers you can find and something to re-hydrate any others we find.”

“You think there are more?”

“Yes. More often than not, kittens get abandoned or drowned in litters,” he grimly told her. Sam was tugging impatiently at his sweater, and Grissom nodded in acknowledgement, following the boy out the back doors towards the beach.

Avra was holding on to Sophie, who had burst into tears. “The kitty’s dead! “ She wailed, burying her face in her grandmother’s lap. Avra hugged her hard.

Tom carefully wrapped the kitten up and looked at his sister, sighing. “So much for a calm evening. Think you can get that stuff he mentioned while I take care of this little guy?”

She nodded.

Sam and Grissom returned twenty minutes later, just as the sun was beginning to set through the clouds. The wind had picked up and the air was cold coming off the ocean towards the land.

Sara held the door open as Sam ran in ahead. “Grissom found more! He got them out of this box way out in the rocks, Dad! Do we have some towels?”

Sara looked out as Grissom lumbered up. He was holding his good sweater bundled in his arms, and his slacks were soaked to mid thigh, but he flashed Sara a tense smile as he spoke, the evening breeze stirring his curls. “Two more dead, three alive. I don’t know for how long, but we can try.”

Sara nodded, her throat tight at the sight of him carefully shedding his wet loafers on the back porch and stepping into the house with his armful. Avra took it from him and carried it to the table. Sara hugged Grissom briefly; he nuzzled her hair and moved to the other side of the table and the light.

Wordlessly, Avra yielded to him and he gently unwrapped the sweater. Three wet balls of shivering fur made piteous squeaks, and Grissom gently picked one up, cupping it in his hands as he quickly scrutinized it under the light. “Waterlogged but feisty. A male, about six weeks old I’d guess. He needs the salt washed off of him, wrapped up and held close to benefit from body heat.”

Will, who was in the kitchen, carefully brought in a pan of warm water in one hand while he gripped his cane in the other.

Avra smiled at him and dipped a washcloth in the water, then handed it to Grissom. He looked around the table in surprise at all the faces watching him as he carefully rubbed the tiny kitten in the heated wet cloth. It tried to fight him, but he was ruthlessly gentle, cleaning off the brine from its grey fur.

“Sara, would you mind cleaning up one of the other kittens? Sophie, do you have a sweatshirt with a big pocket in the front?”

The girl nodded, her brown eyes big and locked on him. “Yeah, my SpongeBob one.”

Grissom smiled. “Go get it and put it on. We’re going to need you to carry this baby in that pocket for a while. Sam, do you have one as well?”

“Yeah,” the boy nodded, already dashing for his room.

Tom glanced uncertainly at Grissom, who shrugged back. “Body heat. Kids radiate much more of it more quickly than adults do,” he explained. “Besides, they want to help.”

Sara had carefully washed off the second kitten and was reaching for the third while Grissom examined the one she’d handed to him.

“Another male,” he muttered, this time with a hint of distaste.

Sara glanced over and smothered a laugh as she saw the thin trickle of urine running down his wrist. “I think you’ve just been scent-marked,” she teased.

Everyone chuckled, and Grissom carefully set the little defiant kitten down as he wiped his hand on a towel. The mostly black kitten swayed a little, and plonked his rear end down; Grissom wrapped him in a soft clean washcloth, then handed him to Avra, who cuddled the kitten against her chest.

*** *** ***

Dinner was a noisy affair; everyone tried to talk to everyone else, and the kittens were a prominent topic in the conversation. Sophie and Sam took their responsibilities as kitten warmers seriously and proudly wore their sweatshirts to the table, complete with bulgy pockets. The table was loaded down with pasta, bread, salad and Grissom’s bottle of wine.

“More spaghetti, Gil?” Avra pressed, passing the pasta his way. Grissom took it, catching Sara’s smirk at his second helping as she broke off another hunk of French bread. She sighed.

“You’re a hero now you know—this is going to be one of the stories Mom will tell all the visitors,” she warned him. Across the table, Tom nodded, grinning in a way Grissom was recognizing as a Sidle trait.

“Oh yeah. The great kitten rescue. Right along with the time Sara fell off the balcony, and the summer that dead great white washed up. Ocean Inn legends.”

“You fell off a balcony?” Grissom arched an eyebrow at her; she blushed.

“I was trying to catch a dragonfly and leaned out too far. Hey, it happens.”

Avra shook her head with loving exasperation as she moved around, ladling up sauce on Grissom’s plate, then did the same to Sara’s, Will’s and Tom’s. “She hit the rosemary bushes and not the redwood deck, thank goodness, but still ended up with a concussion and a broken collarbone. I’m SO glad she’s past those dangerous sorts of things.”

Both Sara and Grissom were suddenly very interested in their plates. Sam piped up giggling. “My kitten’s wiggling! I think he’s trying to get out!”

“Well that’s a good sign. He must be feeling better. How’s yours doing, Dad?” Tom asked, rolling a forkful of pasta as he spoke. 

Will patted the small lump on the inside of his shirtfront and smiled. “The orange one’s purring a bit. I can feel it against my skin.”

“I think it was mean to put them in a box in the water. The people who did that are bad and we should tell the police,” Sophie announced loudly. Everyone stopped eating and looked at her for a second.

Her father sighed. “We all agree, Sophie baby, but I don’t think we’ll ever know who did it. And right now we’d be better off just making sure the three we’ve saved are okay. Any idea what were’ going to do with them?”

Avra looked troubled; Will hid a smirk under his thick mustache and cleared his throat. Sara nudged Grissom and he caught her amused look.

“Come on old woman, you KNOW you want to keep them. It’s been a long time since we’ve had a pet underfoot,” her father began.

Avra sighed. “Oh Will, some people are allergic to cats. We’d have to warn people and go to all the trouble of changing our ads.”

“A line or two, nothing major.”

“And it means cat food and litter boxes, and vet visits . . .”

“We’ve got enough set aside for it.”

“And SOMEONE will have to make sure they stay out of my darkroom,” she warned darkly, but her tone was weakening as a grin crossed her face.

“Done! So, what will we name them?” Will beamed.

*** *** ***

Sara sighed as the hairbrush stroked her scalp once more. Standing behind her, Grissom smiled as he continued to brush her curls slowly before the mirror in the bathroom off the bedroom.

“I’m so glad you stopped straightening it,” he told her in a low voice. She looked over her shoulder at him and gave a little awkward bob of her head, a shy gesture.

“Catherine was the one who talked me into that. She told me that the heat would make me frizz, so straightening it would cut down on the problem. And it did, sort of, but it took forever, and sometimes it just didn’t seem worth it.”

Grissom nodded, set down the brush, and slipped his arms around her waist, hugging her gently while staring at their reflections in the mirror. She pursed her mouth thoughtfully.

“You ruined your slacks and loafers today. I can’t believe you did that.”

Grissom said nothing for a moment, but his look was both wistful and amused, a bittersweet expression. Finally he sighed. “When I was a kid, I used to collect dead animals from the beach in Corona Del Mar. I studied them, knowing it would help me be a better biologist and I’ve seen a lot that didn’t die naturally, or died of exposure. A pair of pants and shoes are a small price to pay for saving lives, even those of kittens. Besides, your dad seems tickled about having them.”

As he spoke, Grissom let his hands slide along Sara’s front tugging the pajama top up off of her. She sighed, standing sweetly exposed in her black thong and nothing else as he appreciatively nuzzled her shoulder and cupped her bare chest.

“Yeah, he loves animals—Grissom . . .” her tone changed, husky and strained as he tweaked her hard nipples with a light roll of his fingers.

“Not in the mood?” he breathed, following up his words with a tender nip. Sara shivered, her chest flushing quickly.

“Oh, in the mood all right, but,” she glanced through the door at the bed wistfully. Grissom snorted and let his fingers skim down over her skin as he toyed with her tight stomach and sculpted hipbones.

“I understand. You don’t want anyone to hear you when I take you deep and slow, Sara. When I pleasure you completely."

She squirmed, responding to his sweet suggestive tone as much as his stroking hands, and the reflection in the mirror intensified her breathing. Grissom sighed happily and turned her around to face him again, kissing her deeply. She tasted of toothpaste as her tongue slipped around his in hungry strokes.

Grissom felt himself stiffen swiftly, pressed against her thigh through his pajama bottoms as he wrapped his arms around her and kissed her again. Sara’s arms slid up around his neck, her hands cupping the back of his head. He laughed into her mouth.

“You’re in a feisty mood—“

“I’m nearly naked and you’re not. It makes me want you even more,” she confessed. One of his hands slipped into the back of her thong, gripping it, tugging it. Sara squealed.

“Hey! No wedgies!”

“Shhhhh---“ he warned, gentling his grip and pushing the thong down. Obligingly Sara shimmied out of it, letting it drop to the fluffy bath rug they were standing on.

Grissom reached up and flicked out the light, plunging the room into shadowy darkness. Sara blinked a little at the loss of light, but the slow sweet stroke of Grissom’s hands down her back reassured and aroused her. Willing she let herself be pulled into his wet, hungry kisses.

“I want you, Sara, so much—“ he muttered into her mouth, teeth nipping her lower lip even as his hands intensified their glide over her bare excited skin. She nodded, a little dazed. One of his hands slid between her thighs, cupping her mound and stroking it with his palm, pressing with just the right lovely pressure to make her moan. Grissom chuckled, pressing her against the bathroom door.

“Shhh—we have to be quiet, Acushla. Very quiet—“  
Sara nodded, boldly pushing forward against his hand again, rubbing herself against him. Along her thigh his cock throbbed through the thin flannel She reached for him and it was Grissom’s turn to choke a bit, his chest expanding as Sara’s fingers caressed him through the cloth.

“Come here—“ she whispered. Carefully she led him over to the wicker rocking chair and sat down in it; Grissom was confused for a moment, but Sara leaned forward and undid the drawstring to his bottoms.

“Oh.” He managed in a surprised tone as she laughed up at him. Between them in the dark, his cock surged forward, nearly bumping her nose.  
“Mmmmm—“ and so saying, Sara opened her mouth and rocked forward.

Grissom bit his lips hard to fight the long low howl that threatened to rise out of his throat. Sara’s mouth slid onto his cock in one long wet plunge, then pulled away as she rocked back. He reached for her shoulders, but she grabbed his hands with her own, weaving her fingers in his as she rocked forward again, tongue caressing his cock as it thrust into her mouth once more.

The tempo drove him insane; that deliberate back and forth of her caressing lips and tongue, moving back and forth with every plunge into her mouth. The rocker was silent on the carpeted floor, but in those long pleasure-filled moments Grissom heard the little wet sounds of Sara’s sucking, felt the building molten pleasure that made his balls ache with tension. 

His fingers tightened on hers warningly and he whispered to her in a hoarse tone, “Sara! Sara, you have to stop honey—“

She made a little disappointed growl, but slowed the rocker. Grissom tugged on her hands, pulling her up again, kissing her wetly, wildly.

“One more minute and—“

“Wanted that—“ Sara hissed back in frustration, but Grissom shook his head. He swung her away from the rocker and took her place, sitting in it, tugging her down onto his lap.

“Oh!” she gasped, sliding her thighs around his hips, feeling him plunge into her in a one deep thrust. Grissom’s head lolled back and the cords of his strong neck stood out in the dim light. One hand pressed to the small of her back holding her against him, the other slid between their bodies, his thumb stroking the hard little nub of her pulsing clitoris.

He rocked.

Sara writhed, impaled and tense, feeling the amazing shift with each rock of the chair, the slick heaviness of Grissom’s cock throbbing tightly inside her as his thumb teased along her fur. Rapidly, furiously the roiling tension flared through her hips and she clung to the arms of the chair, blind and lost as her orgasm exploded in searing waves of incredible pleasure drenching each cell of her body.

She collapsed against his shoulder, dimly aware of his ragged breathing, feeling slick thrusts between her thighs and a sudden gush of heat deep within as he helplessly groaned against her throat, teeth nipping at the tender join of her neck and shoulder.  
They still rocked, slower, but with leaden satisfaction, loosely wrapped together with every move. Sara turned her head, lips pressing close to Grissom’s damp ear, and she chuckled very softly.  
“Outside the bed is . . . good.”

He gave a little affirmative groan, hands sliding to cup her bottom as he nuzzled her. “I . . ."

“Yeah?”

“I love you. And I think we need to buy a rocking chair,” he decided.

Sara laughed.


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter Five

 

Grissom woke suddenly, glancing at his watch out of habit. It was three twelve in the morning, and he wondered what had caught his attention. The cell phone lay silent on the nightstand, and next to him, Sara slept on in a sweet deep slumber, her breathing shallow and slow.

He tensed as a soft sound echoed faintly, only to be repeated again a few seconds later. Grissom cocked his head towards the source, which seemed to be—

“Oh God noooooo. Now my humiliation is complete!” came Sara’s muzzy whisper as she shifted to rest her head on Grissom’s chest. He hugged her automatically and blinked. The sound, which seemed to be a gentle thump along the wall, recurred and seemed to settle in a steady pattern, barely audible, but persistent. Grissom grinned widely and settled back into the pillows as Sara buried her face against his bare chest.

“That’s . . . the headboard next door,” he deduced.

The moan Sara muffled on him was ripe with embarrassment; Grissom had his tongue firmly planted in his cheek. He pulled the blankets up around them.

“Didn’t you tell me your father is, what? Nearly seventy years old, Sara?” he whispered, amused.

“Yes. I didn’t think they’d do anything while we were here! This is SO embarrassing!”

Grissom chuckled and turned, rolling Sara so he was spooned up against her lean spine. The gentle pattern of thumps grew slightly stronger.

“Shhhh—don’t think about it. Hell, I walked in on my mother and Alex once and didn’t stop blushing for a month. The sex life of parents is NOT a savory subject.”

“Ugh, it was bad enough when Tom and I were younger, but man, this is unbelievable,” Sara agreed wearily. Grissom tightened his grip around her waist and breathed in the soft scent of her hair, warm and fragrant.

“Think you and I will still be doing it twenty years down the line?” he whispered in a wistful tone.

Sara’s bottom ground against him firmly and she gave a soft chuckle.

“Grissom, You’ll wear me out in TEN years if not sooner, and don’t you dare start kissing my . . . Gil!”

 

Sara woke up three hours later alone. The early morning was overcast, and she could hear the low cries of gulls out the window. She got up, wondering where Grissom had gone. Quietly she headed down the hall and stairs, looking out into the empty living room. A light spilled out from the kitchen, and Sara moved towards it, hearing a low buzz of voices before she reached it, along with a rattling clink of bowls and spoons.

“ . . . Mushy. And they make the milk look all weirded out in a green color.”

“I used to eat Frosted Flakes, but someone made me switch to Raisin Bran,” she heard Grissom sigh.

Then Sophie’s voice piped up. “You can have some of my Froot Loops. I won’t tell. But I get the prize, okay?”

“Thank you, Sophie.” As Sara stepped into the kitchen, all three of them looked up, two happily, one guiltily; she wanted to laugh.

Grissom sat at the table between the two children, all three of them in pajamas. Sophie wore PowerPuff Girls baby dolls and had a serious case of bed head. Sam looked no less tousled in thermals decorated with astronauts and rockets. Grissom’s blue striped flannels and bathrobe seemed almost plain by comparison. He smiled up at her. “Hey.”

“Hey. I thought you LIKED Raisin Bran,” she chided.

He managed a chagrined look and dropped his gaze to the bowl in front of him, which was filled with colorful lumps of green, blue and red cereal.

Sophie giggled. “Grissom’s in trou-ble!” she sang out with glee.

Sam elbowed her and moved to defend him. “We don’t have anything but Corn Pops and Froot Loops because Granny Avra used up all the oatmeal yesterday, and she won’t make pancakes ‘cause she’s too busy with the turkey,” Sam announced somewhat defiantly.

Sara slumped into a chair and folded her arms on the table, grinning a little. “Oh yeah, that’s right. She’s got the kitchen blocked off, huh?”

All three of the people across from her nodded. Sara reached for Grissom’s mug and shot him a look; he gave a grunt of agreement and she picked it up for a sip.

“You’ll get germs if you don’t wipe the cup,” Sophie observed. 

Sara shrugged.“Grissom and I have the same germs. And cooties.”

He arched an eyebrow at her, and she nearly choked on her mouthful of coffee.

Sam wiggled off his chair. “I’m going to see how the kittens are. Grandma says they’re locked up in the laundry room.”

Sophie scrambled to join him, and Sara sighed. She reached for the bowl in front of Grissom and picked out a green loop, crunching it as he watched her; very carefully he shook his head and offered her a spoon. Sara rolled her eyes, but took it, and together they companionably dug into the cereal, crunching and slurping happily.

“So I take it you want some variety now? At breakfast, I mean,” she rushed on, her face pink as Grissom shot her a flirty look under his dark lashes.

“I grew up on Frosted Flakes, Sara. Tony and I go waaaay back.”

“Tony’s full of sugar and no fiber, lover. Tony and his chemical-laden offerings will block you up like a storm drain in a flash flood.”

Grissom’s expression to this comment was fairly priceless; Sara laughed out loud and fished the last green loop out of the bowl.

“Fine, okay, no big deal. We can have Frosted Flakes on hand and I’ll just double up your dose of V8 then. Deal?” she demanded, right before picking up the empty bowl and drinking down an enormous mouthful of sweetened milk.

“Sara . . .” he cooed, reaching for the box of Froot Loops and shaking it, “--Come to the sugar-coated Dark Side, wherein lie the joys of hyperactivity and cool prizes . . .”

She started to laugh, choked, and snorted the milk out her nose just as Sophie and Sam returned. Both of them stopped short, awed and delighted by this unexpected show; Grissom handed her a napkin and looked at the children, his expression serious.

“Your Aunt Sara has this eating disorder,” he began, only to receive a swat on the arm from her as she noisily tried to clear the lactose from her sinuses.

Sophie dropped a kitten on the table and it strolled over to the nearest cereal bowl, sticking its face into it.

Grissom scooped it up. “No animals on the table unless they’re being examined,” Grissom chided. “Sara, are you okay?”

Red-eyed, she nodded, her glare promising dire revenge. He ignored it to study the fluffy kitten in his hands. Sophie leaned over his arm to join him.

“That’s Figaro. He’s the one that peed on you.”

“I remember him,” Grissom intoned darkly. The kitten stared up at him, wide-eyed, and patted his beard experimentally with a soft paw. Grissom softly stroked him with big, gentle hands; a tiny motorboat purr rolled out of the kitten. Sara wiped her nose again.

“Always good with soft furry things, aren’t you?” she accused in an undertone. He grinned back briefly, and then passed Figaro back to Sophie.

“How about the other two?”

“Cicero’s under the table and Allegra’s here,” Sam handed the orange kitten to Grissom, who absently rubbed her under the chin with the edge of his forefinger. The kitten’s eyes closed in bliss.

“They all seem pretty lively. Have they eaten?”

“Yeah, some tuna. Grandma says we can pick up some kitten chow at the store if they’re open today. Do you want to play Chutes and Ladders?”

“Maybe later,” he replied politely as Sara took Figaro from Sophie and stroked him. Sophie wandered off towards the living room and the large screen television, where images of the Thanksgiving Day Parade flickered.

Sara glanced at Grissom. “You did that on purpose,” came her accusation. He shook his head in bland denial, but his eyes were mirthful as he picked up the empty bowls and cleared the table.

“I’d never trick you into a Niagara nose just to get Frosted Flakes, Sara. What kind of a guy do you think I am?”

She glared at his broad back as he walked to the kitchen. “I know exactly what kind of guy you are!”

*** *** ***

“Are you sure, Sara? Absolutely, positively? Committed to the core, darling?” her mother asked nervously.

Sara took a deep breath and planted her hands on the Formica counter, nodding. All throughout the kitchen, the warm and enticing smells of Thanksgiving drifted and mingled together in a lovely bouquet of turkey, pie and assorted vegetables.

“Yes mom, it’s THAT serious. I know not everyone will understand, and I appreciate you being concerned, but really, it’s what I want, what I’m comfortable with now.”

“I’d just feel bad if it was a mistake, girlchild,” her mother murmured softly, bringing her hands up to Sara’s wide shoulders and squeezing them as she managed a tentative smile. Sara lifted her chin and smiled back.

“It’s okay, mom. Being a vegetarian isn’t all that scary anymore, okay?”

“I know, I know, but still—sitting at a table with a fifteen pound bird on it—oh lord! Please tell me Grissom isn’t vegetarian too!” Avra blanched. 

Sara shook her head swiftly. “Oh no, he’s still carnivorous,” she managed with only a tiny cough to cover her smile. Avra sighed with relief and bustled to the stovetop, where a large pot of water was starting to boil. Efficiently, she began adding quartered potatoes to it as Sara picked up the peeler to finish the last three still sitting on the edge of the sink.

“How do you reach a compromise on it?” her mother asked softly, her undertone carrying more allusions than the surface question.

Sara looked over at her. “Work at it. We’re very different people mom, but one of the great things about Grissom is that he’s pretty accepting of our dissimilarities. I sing, he doesn’t. He eats meat, I don’t. He likes crooners, I groove on Indie. But in the end, the two of us together are more in sync than I’ve ever felt with anyone else, despite an age and sex difference.”

Avra gave a soft chuckle as she stirred the potatoes. “And where will this all lead, Sara, this synchronicity of yours? Marriage? Children?”

Sara paused, peeler poised over the thin brown skin of the heavy russet in her hand. She sighed, feeling a rush of elated panic through her chest. “I don’t know. He’s hinted enough about marriage but hasn’t ever come straight out and said anything directly to me.”

“—Yet,“ her mother broke in with a smile as she opened the oven door to check on the turkey. The delicious scent wafted into the kitchen.

“—Yet,” agreed Sara, “and I’m pretty sure he’s dead set against having kids.”

Avra stared at her daughter, confused. “Why?”

Sara looked around the kitchen, an unneeded precaution since her mother had given strict orders for everyone else to stay out of it. She moved closer to Avra, her expression etched with pain.

“He hasn’t talked much about his childhood, mom, and he’s NEVER mentioned his father. I know his parents divorced when he was about Sophie’s age, and he grew up with his mom who was going deaf at the time so he ended up with a lot of responsibility at an early age and it affected him. Ultimately I think he’s afraid of either being a bad father, or he’s not sure he even knows how to BE a father.”

Avra nodded slowly, pursing her mouth as she took this in. For a while neither said anything as they worked in quiet familiar tandem around each other in the age-old kitchen dance.

Avra finally sighed as she pulled out the mixer and poured the drained potatoes into it. “Sara, what do YOU want? What do you think about him being a father?”

Carefully, Sara cocked her head, looking off in the distance and managing a troubled little smile. “I don’t know, mom. I love him, I know that to the core of my bones, but up until now I never really thought about marriage or kids. Figured I’d have time for that later down the road.”

“It’s just that he’s a bit further down the road than you are,” Avra pointed out gently. Sara winced, but her mother shot her a patient look as she pulled out the green bean casserole and poked at it.

“I knew we couldn’t slip that age difference by you for long,” Sara muttered only half in jest.

Avra gave a very tolerant shrug.“Your father is older than I am by six years, Sara, so neither he nor I are going to chide you on that. All I’m pointing out is that the two of you may have very different outlooks on the future now that you’re together. Perhaps you’d better talk a bit more before you come to any . . . major decisions. That’s all. Can you get me a stick of butter, girlchild?”

*** *** ***

Tom and his father were riveted to the football game, barely taking their eyes off the screen, where the Giants were just hanging on to a three point lead over the Broncos in the last minute of the fourth quarter. Grissom was watching as well, and playing absently with the kittens, who seemed to find his pant cuffs fascinating. Sophie was sprawled in sleep on the sofa, her head on her father’s thigh and dead to the world. Sam was working with Legos on the floor, building a tower.

“Well that’s it, then. They’ll go on to St. Louis, not that they deserve it,” Will accused the screen, where the camera panned through the celebrating San Francisco team. He rose up stiffly from his chair, gripping his cane for leverage, and glanced over at Grissom. Tom was trying to shift Sophie off his leg with moderate success. Will picked up a small wooden box from the end table.

“Gil, come on out to the porch with me. Avra’s not going to approve, but since she’s busy at the moment she can’t say boo to a goose.”

Curious, Grissom followed Will out the side door to the wide wooden porch that wrapped around the entire inn. Will leaned his back against the railing, the light breeze snapping at his white hair and baggy fisherman’s sweater as he opened the box. He pulled out a battered mahogany pipe and shot a resigned look at his companion as he carefully filled the bowl of the pipe with damp tobacco, then lit it with a wooden match.

“Down to one every few days. Ages ago I smoked three a day, but for the last ten years it’s trickled down. Hope it doesn’t bother you.”

“I’m fine,” Grissom told him, moving upwind and leaning against the railing as he looked out over the ruffled waves rolling into the beach. A few adventurous souls were walking along the tide line. Will puffed a bit to get a glow on the tobacco, then pulled the pipe out and let the smoke trickle out from under his thick mustache.

“So, Mr. Gil Grissom of Las Vegas, tell me in twenty-five words or fewer exactly what your intentions concerning my daughter are.”

“Ultimately, marriage,” Grissom murmured back, not turning his gaze from the beach.

Will chuckled mildly. “That’s a goal, son, not quite the same as an intention. A good goal mind you, but not exactly what I was curious about.”

Grissom turned to look at Will, his expression slightly troubled; the older man gave him a patient look that lingered.

“I’m not sure what you mean, then. I intend on loving Sara for the rest of our lives, and working at making her happy.”

Will cocked his head and considered this, his gaze on the pipe in his hand. “How long have you known Sara?”

“Nine years,” he replied easily.

“And how long have you loved her, Gil?”

Grissom hesitated, not sure what to say. He’d been intrigued and infatuated with her from the day they’d met, but loving Sara—that was much harder to pinpoint.

As he struggled for the right answer, Will puffed his pipe and laughed softly. “Not so easy, is it?”

“No,” Grissom admitted with a wry smile. Will sighed, and turned so both of them were looking out over the beach. 

He spoke up softly. “I met Avra when she was sixteen and I was twenty-two. Didn’t marry her until ten years later, after both of us had gone through some serious ups and downs.” He waved the pipe, “Avra was a runaway, showed up here at the Inn covered in bruises and missing a tooth. My folks took her in and she repaid ‘em by being the best worker they ever had at this place. Loved her like a daughter.”

Grissom blinked, trying to imagine the tall, slim, laughing woman who’d hugged him as a scared teenager. It wasn’t as hard to picture as he thought, and that saddened him. Will sighed.

“She was . . . a temptation. After a few years I knew if I stayed around I’d get us both into trouble so I took off with a group of friends for a few more years. Never forgot her though, and wrote home regularly. Then my mother died, and when I came back for the funeral Avra was pretty much running the place from top to bottom. I walked in and saw her and knew I really was home when she smiled at me. THAT was the moment, Gil. Like stepping off a cliff with your eyes closed.”

“Like the first big drop on a roller coaster,” Grissom intoned, awareness dawning on his face.

Will nodded emphatically, blowing a wisp of smoke out. “Exactly. A moment you know there’s no going back from, and yet with your heart and balls all you want to do is go forward.”

“Yes,” Grissom agreed. He looked at Will and drew in a breath. “I love Sara, and even though I can’t pinpoint the moment for you when it crossed over into that, I know it’s been growing for a long time, Will. She’s what fills my dark spaces and keeps me balanced. I can exist without her, but it’s not really . . . living.”

Will drew the stem of his pipe out and gave the other man a stern smile. “And how long have you been bedding her?”

Grissom flushed, but Will gave a weary shake of his head and laughed dryly. “Spare me, son—I sowed my wild oats along Haight Ashbury, so there isn’t anything that can faze me these days. And yes it’s damned nosy of me, but humor an old man and just answer the question. I DO have a point here.”

“About six months,” Grissom replied slowly, thinking back to the cave-in at the end of May, and all that had transpired since then.

Will tapped the stem of his pipe on his lower teeth and turned to look Grissom in the face, brown eyes meeting blue. “So it’s more than just mutual lust then; the two of you are much more serious than a fling. Good. You know both of you are in for a lot of gossip and speculation, don’t you? That even when your friends accept the two of you as a couple, there will always be those who’ll make comments and judgments.”

Grissom gave a small, tight smile, his eyes full of wariness as he gripped the porch rail more forcefully in his big hands. “I know. And I can’t say I’m completely comfortable with our age difference myself, but . . .” he trailed off, his gaze dropping to his feet.

Will puffed thoughtfully on the pipe for a moment. “ . . . But you want to do to her what spring does with cherry trees, to misquote Pablo Neruda. And you do, apparently. Sara is happy, Gil. She’s got bounce again; she’s her mother’s image once more.” Will snorted happily, the smoke billowing under his mustache as he twitched it. “’Tis love and I’m not blind to it. So here’s my word on this. Six months more, Mr. Grissom. Court her for the rest of the year before you drop on one knee and offer her your ring. You DO have a ring, don’t you?”

“Not yet,” Grissom admitted, studying his knuckles. “I’ve been holding back until I had a chance to speak to you and Avra. And to be honest . . .”

“—You’re worried she’ll say no,” Will finished for him. 

Surprised, Grissom looked up at the older man, who shrugged. “Yeah. Terrified, actually.”

“Can’t help you there, son. All I can tell you is that you’ve got half a year more to improve your odds, which are pretty good right now if I know my Sara. A lot of it might depend on your careers, your plans for a family—little stuff like that,” Will teased gently.

Grissom felt a tug on his shirt; Sam was looking up at him with a grin. “Granny Avra says it’s turkey time!” he announced importantly.

*** *** ***

“Dear God, mom, you’re only feeding seven people, not an army!” Tom muttered as he looked over the table in astonishment. Sophie was in his arms, playing with her father’s dangling earring as he set her down on the chair padded with phone books.

Avra wiped her hands on her apron and shot her son an exasperated look.

“Boychild, you EAT like an army so don’t be so sure I’ve overdone it. Have you washed your hands?”

Meekly Tom headed to the kitchen while Sara and Sam carried more dishes to the table. Will and Grissom came in, looking at the table with twin expressions of awe. “Avra my love, we’re going to be ROLLING away from this table,” Will chuckled. 

She slipped over to his side and pecked his cheek, her expression slightly disapproving at the scent of tobacco on him. “Last pipe for the week, Will Sidle.”

“Bossy old lady,” he teased. She pointed to the kitchen.

“Wash up, both of you while Sara and I get the gravy smooth. Gil, will you have wine or sparkling cider?”

“Wine, thank you.“ he trailed after Will and joined him at the sink, scrubbing his hands under the faucet while around them, in the kitchen, came more bustle and clatter.

“Mom? Did you already put the rolls out?”

“Yes, but not the salt and pepper. Wine, Sara?”

“Yes please. What about the green beans?”

“On the counter next to the breadbox—“

Will handed Grissom a kitchen towel with a lighthouse embroidered on it; as he dried his hands he caught the tiny initials SS in the corner.

“Sara did this?” he asked in surprise.

Will glanced down and gave a nod, heading back to the table.

“Certainly. She also did my sweater and about fifteen of the better pillowcases in the guest rooms. Nimble with a needle when she wants to be. Now come on and let’s eat—“

Once the assembled group was around the table, Sara glanced at Grissom, who was seated next to her and smiled at him. He felt the breathless tingle swirl in his chest as she softly whispered, “I’m really glad you’re here.”

Under the table, her hand slipped into his and squeezed; he squeezed back. Across from him, Sophie tapped a spoon on her Winnie the Pooh plate. Avra scooted in and sat down, looking down the length of the table and beamed at all of them. 

Gracefully she held out her hands, one to Tom and one to Sara and bowed her head. The rest of the group joined hands and did the same, respectfully, as she softly spoke up.

“Thankful are we to be together in this season, united in laughter and love, given the bounty of the harvest and God’s tender mercies on us all, Amen.”

Just as she finished, there was a soft ‘thump’ from the far end of the table between Will and Grissom. Proudly, messily, Figaro had leaped from the floor into middle of the relish tray, scattering pickles and green olives along the snowy white tablecloth.


	6. Chapter 6

Chapter Six

 

It was a tough decision, Grissom mused. While the blackberry was tempting him with its lattice top and dark sweet filling, the pumpkin was equally enticing, a smooth burnt orange colored with flecks of spice throughout it. Standing next to him along the kitchen counter, Sam pointed at the pumpkin; his father deftly cut a slice, scooping it on a plate.

“Whipped cream?”

“Yep!”

The whoosh of the aerosol can brought Grissom back to his decision, and he reached for the blackberry, carving a moderate slice out with only a little messiness. He carried it back to the table, looked at Sara’s plate, and then pouted.

“I didn’t know you could get _both_ ,” he whispered to her. 

She flashed an impish grin at him, twirling her fork in the air. “Keep in mind, Grissom, that sometimes it’s not A or B, but A and B that are the correct answer. You can always have seconds anyway.”

“Not without exploding,” he sighed happily. Around the table the rest of the family were slowly eating dessert.

Avra looked particularly pleased. “Turkey tetrazzini tomorrow with parmesan rolls. Sara, are you still going for a run in the morning?”

“After this meal, yeah, I think it’s probably a good idea . . .”

“Good. Before lunch I’d like to take some photos of you and Gil if you don’t mind. I’ve already done Tom and the children, so the two of you are up next,” Avra decided. Sara winced a little at her mother’s amused tone. 

Will looked down the table at all of them. “Tom and I are taking the kids to Draper playground up the beach for the morning—wear the little monkeys down. After that I was thinking we could take the kittens in to that vet over near Seven Corners to have them checked out.”

“Checked out!” Avra sniffed, her smile vanishing under the memory of Figaro’s grand Thanksgiving dinner entrance, “I’ll tell you what, Will Sidle, we’ll go with three and come home with two!”

“Now now, Fig didn’t mean any harm. He’s just a kitten,” Will muttered, but half-heartedly. 

Sophie looked at her grandmother with big, worried eyes. “Are you going spank him?” she blurted out. Avra froze at the girl’s quivery tone.

She sighed. “No, Sophie, I’m not going to spank Figaro, although he certainly deserves it. He’s just going to have to work a little harder to get back in my good graces.”

Both children breathed obvious sighs of relief; Tom pushed his plate away with a little groan.

“Mom, you did it again. Fabulous!” Little choruses of agreement echoed out from around the table, and Avra beamed, shooting looks at Sara.

“I had help you know—girlchild here did the green beans and potatoes AND the gravy this year.”

Grissom casually slid a hand along Sara’s thigh under the table; she quivered but merely smiled at everyone brightly.

*** *** ***

Friday midmorning was bright and sunny; Avra had already fielded four reservation calls before Sara managed to finish her post run shower and come down to join her and Grissom at the table. When she got there, her mother was already in earnest conversation with him, holding one of his big hands between her own slender ones.

“And I’ve always seen people through this filter, Gil. For the longest time I didn’t realize others didn’t automatically perceive the energy impressions that emanate around us. When I did speak about it, I was called crazy, or accused of lying to get attention . . .” her voice trailed off; Grissom gave a slight squeeze to her fingers.

“So you actually see auras,” he repeated gently. Avra blinked, and flicked her long silver braid over her shoulder, smiling at him.

“Oh yes. They wax and wane throughout the day as a person’s energy level does, and some of them have distinct tints that I’ve learned are reflective of certain types of power. Take my Will. He’s generally a good strong yellow with a tint of royal blue around the edges. The yellow is his primary life force, and the blue is his um, sexual vitality. Most women carry a shade of red, and men blue,” she rushed on as Sara sat down at the table. Grissom glanced over at her and she knew he was remembering Avra’s words when she’d first hugged him. His eyes twinkled.

“So you want to do some impression plates today, mom?” Sara went for a bland tone, ignoring the tease in Grissom’s glance. Her mother nodded enthusiastically.

“Oh definitely! A few of you and a few of Gil, and if I have a double I’d love to see the intermesh of your hands. I suspect a good rich aubergine between you.”

Sara shrugged. “Lead on then.”

Avra guided them down through the laundry room to the far side, where a small darkroom stood. She looked up as Grissom caught sight of a few framed plates hanging over the washer and dryer. He leaned forward for a better look.

One small black handprint glowed with a halo so vibrantly pink it nearly hurt the eyes; it was tinted along the edges with green. Another black hand shadow had a rich hue of orange with little traces of magenta along the fingers. Grissom smiled.

“Sophie is the easy one, since her size gives her away. But the other one?”

Avra smiled; Sara spoke up.

“That’s mom’s hand. She’s normally a red, but she’s got aura overlay from dad in her print from all those years of constant interface.”

Shyly, Avra nodded, pushing up her glasses as she opened the darkroom door. Grissom followed her in, with Sara trailing behind.

The darkroom had large square stone walls, and hanging on them were various other aural prints. Most were of dark leaves and feet and animal paws, each with a nimbus or green or red; Sara grinned at her mother.

“Going to do the kittens too, mom?”

“Maybe Cicero and Allegra,” she replied huffily, pulling out a drawer and setting a large square contact plate down within a black plastic box. She directed Grissom to plug in the charger, and reached for a sheet of film to lay under the plate, humming as she did so. Fascinated, Grissom watched her.

“So the aura is only evident in living things, correct? A stone or a dead person wouldn’t leave any impression.”

“No. But even the smallest living thing has an aura. Up there,” she waved at a photo on the wall, “is of a pair of earthworms, for example.”

The photo showed a pair of black curvy lines with a faint halo of fainter lime along their edges. Grissom looked up and studied it, unaware of Avra guiding his hand down into the box.

“Here we go,” A faint crackle echoed against the stone walls and he jumped, startled as Sara laughed.  
“It’s just a tiny zap, babe, even smaller that a carpet shock,” she teased. Gingerly he pulled his hand out as Avra flipped the light switch off and pulled the film out, leaving them all in the dark.

“There! Give me about fifteen seconds and you two will see what I already view around Mr. Gil Grissom!” she chirped, moving with familiarity to the sink at the back.

Taking advantage of the darkness, Sara reached for Grissom, nosing her way up to his mouth for a quick kiss that he warmly returned. He smiled against her mouth and they drew apart mere seconds before Avra clicked the light on again, setting the wet paper down on the table.

“There! As rich a blue as you could ever hope to find, edged with spikes of green . . . you must be recovering from something, Gil. The green is a healing color.”

The big solid black outline of Grissom’s right hand was surrounded by halo of deep cerulean with long slender shoots of peridot most notably between the strong fingers.

Sara stared at it, transfixed. “It’s beautiful, mom . . .” she breathed softly. 

Grissom cocked his head and studied the print curiously, his interest sharp but amused. “I never realized my palm was so big.”

“Strength lies not in the size but in the action,” Avra murmured as she scooped up the print and hung it up to dry.

She quickly set up another plate. This was bigger; a rectangle nearly two feet long and ten inches wide. Avra fussed with the contact paper for a moment, and then directed Sara to come over to her.

“You stand on the left, girlchild, and put your left hand down, tip it a little inward, yes . . . All right, Gil, you put your right hand down towards hers. You can touch index fingers and thumbs . . . good.”

The process left Sara looking up into Grissom’s face as they each leaned on the plate; he looked down at her, his eyes amazingly pellucid. The rush of tenderness through her chest was almost painful, and she leaned towards him, drawn forward by the compulsion of his gaze . . .

A tingle flashed through her palm and, with a click, the darkroom light went out just as she felt his mouth drop onto hers, hungry and sweet. Neither noticed Avra discreetly push behind them to lift the contact plate for the paper. Seconds later when the light came on again, Sara broke off the kiss, startled and dazed.

“Oh don’t mind ME,” Avra teased with a merry smile as she lifted the paper out of the solution. “Gil dear, would you please just push the charger plate back a bit so we can have a look at this . . .”

She carefully laid the wet print down on the table and gave a little ‘oooh’ of delight. Sara exhaled in a rush of breath, and Grissom’s mouth opened in surprise.

The two black hand outlines were sharp and well defined, forming a perfect triangle between their touching index fingers and thumbs. The smaller one had more elegant fingers, and surrounding it flared a lovely wash of brilliant scarlet, stippled with hints of lilac along the fingertips. The other was larger and stronger looking; around it was the cerulean halo with the green streaks.

And between the two handprints, filling the finger triangle they made, shone a rich brilliant amethyst, a shade so magnificent that it seemed almost alive. Avra clapped her hands in joy, beaming at the sight of it.

“Oh children, it’s positively magnificent! Such a PERFECT hue blend of your red and his blue, Sara . . .”

“What’s that?” Sara asked softly, pointing to the center of the triangle. Frowning, Grissom leaned forward, staring intently. Avra bit her lip, her brown eyes going wider at the faint little shadow developing right in the center of the amethyst section.

“Oh my . . .” She murmured.

Sara shook her head lightly as the image became more defined. “It’s a trick of the light. A defect in the film maybe . . .” she offered weakly, looking up at Grissom.

He was still staring down at the tiny shape, and his face held a hint of stern wonder. “Maybe, but the odds are extremely low. My guess is that we’re looking at something that cannot lie, Sara,” he slowly intoned.

She looked up at him, smiling, her eyes bright. He slid his arm around her, kissing her hairline.

“Every woman recognizes THAT shape,” she whispered slowly.

*** *** ***

The nightstand clock read 12:14, and most of the Ocean Inn had settled down for the night. Only three individuals were awake, two of them acclimated to the night, one of them merely hyperactive.

In the glow of the lamplight, Figaro pounced. He attacked the moving pencil with ferocious intensity, trying to wrestle it out of Grissom’s hand with absolutely no success despite his persistence. 

Wearily, Grissom set the crossword puzzle down and slid his free hand under Figaro’s belly, lifting him up to eye level to glare at him.

“Cease and desist, pal.”

Changing tactics, the kitten immediately squirmed, trying to deal with the Evil Claw that now held him in its deadly clutches. Grissom rolled his eyes, set his pencil down and gently began stroking Figaro in long firm glides down his back. The kitten’s black sides bellowed in and out for a moment, and then the familiar rolling purr began to rumble out of him. He stared up at Grissom, as if astonished to be making the sound at all. Grissom looked back, trying hard not to smile and almost making it.

“So take THAT,” he told the little animal with a smirk in his voice. Gradually the kitten sandwiched in his hands relaxed and began to lick Grissom’s thumb with a ticklish raspy stroke, like a flick of sandpaper. He smiled.

“I see you defeated your ninja stalker there,” Sara commented from the bathroom doorway. 

Grissom kept his eyes on Figaro and nodded. “Once again, human triumphs over feline.”

“A fleeting victory. I sense several return engagements in the future.”

“Possibly,” Grissom acknowledged. He rose up from the bed and carried Figaro to the door, carefully setting him outside of it, and shutting it firmly, making sure it didn’t catch the hem of his bathrobe.  
“In the meantime, we have things to discuss, Sara . . .” he began, only to stop short at the sight of her.  
The bathroom light behind her streamed through the short, filmy black nightie, accentuating her long graceful curves and endless legs; as she leaned seductively against the doorjamb Sara gave him a hot-eyed look that left his knees weak. Grissom swayed a little.

“Like it? It’s new . . .” she purred in a husky tone slightly deeper than Figaro’s. Without a word, Grissom moved. In three steps he was in the doorway, his arms around her waist, pulling her to him in a slam of hips so hard they both gasped. Sara pressed her palm to his mouth and shot a meaningful look at the far wall. Grissom smiled around her fingers.

“Like it,” he whispered, grinding against her thigh and proving it far more concretely than his words conveyed. Sara began nuzzling his bare chest, her lips dragging wetly over his collarbone.

“You said something about a discussion?” Sara prompted, sliding one of her slender thighs between his in a teasing stroke against his straining pajamas. Grissom’s mouth twitched reproachfully and he slid his hands down her back to tightly squeeze the firm globes of her ass.

“Later,” he wetly kissed the slender curve of her throat. “Much later.” His mouth reached her ear and he licked the shell of it, making her quiver. “In fact, tomorrow,” he decided.

Sara’s only reply was a helpless loud moan. Grissom covered her mouth with his in the quickest, tastiest way to silence her, and they stood kissing for long tense minutes. Finally Sara broke away from him with a sob of frustration.

“I can’t be quiet, it’s too hard!” she whispered in defeat. “When I’m with you I forget everything else.”  
Grissom’s shot her a sensually speculative look; she felt her nipples stiffen further at the sight of that smile, at the idea that dawned to both of them.

“Gag me,” she insisted. Grissom hesitated, but Sara’s hands slid up to cup his face and touch his beard, “Please—!”

“Are you sure, Sara?” came his question, his voice low and concerned. She nodded, reaching for the soft terrycloth belt around his bathrobe, pulling it free from the loops. Confidently she held it up to him, her brown eyes brimming with trust and desire. Grissom took a deep, steadying breath.

“Ohhh,” he sighed, kissing her once more. With grave ceremony he took the belt and ran a hand down the length of it, then brought it up to Sara’s beautiful mouth. He gave her a last lingering kiss before pressing the soft terrycloth against her lips.

“Open your mouth slightly, Sara,” he ordered, his voice a little strained. She did as told; the belt rested snugly between her lips from one corner of her mouth to the other, and Grissom brought the ends of it behind her head. He crossed the belt and looped it once more around, then tied it off just behind her right ear.

Carefully he lifted her chin and looked into her eyes. “Thank you for trusting me. Now we both know you’re not going to be able to make a sound while I take my time getting my hands and tongue under this nightie of yours, sweetheart.”

Sara shuddered happily, her arms sliding around Grissom’s strong neck. She wriggled against him, skimming her palms through his hair as he carefully steered her back out into the bedroom. Grissom’s glance fell on the rocking chair once more, and he swiftly swung Sara around to it, cradling her face in his hands as he loomed over her.

“Sit . . .” he crooned happily, helping her settle back demurely against the wicker back. Sara watched him kneel in front of her and understood; lazily she hooked one leg up and over the arm of the rocker, gazing at Grissom with a challenging lift of her chin. He slid his hands down her upper arms; the palms warm against her goose bumps.

“Lingerie is unbearably sexy, Sara. It’s an agonizing tease to a man, a taunt, a promise, a come-on all in one,” he breathed the words on the sensitive skin along her throat. Sara arched her back as he kissed down between her breasts into the cleavage of the nightie without touching her anywhere else. Slow swipes of his tongue probed further down, and the tickle of his beard along the inner curve of each breast made Sara quiver.

She touched his broad back, skimming her fingertips over the swell of muscle along each shoulder blade, trailing them back up along the back of his neck. Grissom laughed very softly, the sound muffled between her breasts.

“Sweet, sexy gossamer against your skin . . .” he reached up, pulling the V neckline of the nightie down each of her shoulders. It slipped enough to expose the upper curve of each breast, the edges catching on her pert nipples and making Grissom groan a little. Delicately he took the filmy material in his teeth and tugged it away from first the left breast, then the right, exposing Sara’s elegant chest in the dim glow from the lamp across the room. Sara lolled her head back, and Grissom could see the rapid beat of her pulse along her slender throat.  
The sight of her, bare to the waist, the blue belt gag across her mouth, made him breathe hard as he stared at her gorgeous collarbones, the sweet perfect curve of each breast, her smoky rose nipples.

“Like taking the wrapper off a truffle,” he sighed, hands coming up to cup her breasts and squeeze lightly. He kissed each nipple, then licked it, making Sara squirm. She slid her legs around his waist, pulling him closer to her, and he laughed very softly.  
Sara’s brown velvet eyes flared with lustful heat; she snaked one hand down Grissom’s chest and fumbled with the drawstring of his pajama bottoms, undoing the loose bow within seconds. He pulled back from kissing her chest with a quizzical cock of one eyebrow; she stared back determinedly.

“Someone’s impatient,” he rumbled in a sotto voice. Sara grinned through her gag, and let her other hand join the first, fishing into his pajama bottoms with single-minded intent. Grissom’s eyelids fluttered as her cool fingers slid around the warm suede of his cock. She took advantage of his distraction and rocked, letting the movement of the chair guide her strokes along his straining shaft.  
“Oh sweetheart . . .”

But Sara refused to stop her sinuous caresses, her lingering touch along the thick veins erotically gentle, and Grissom dropped his head, fighting to get his breathing back under control. In retaliation he slid his hands up her thighs, pushing the flimsy negligee up to her hips. Sara squirmed a little as his fingers began to tease the insides of her thighs, moving in slow circles inward.

“Shall I kiss you here, Sara?”

In answer she nodded, tilting her hips and leaning back, offering herself up to him. Grissom slowly kissed his way up her thighs, shifting from one to the other in a slow and maddening fashion, while Sara stroked the back of his head, fingers playing in the soft curls of his hair. Very gently, Grissom pushed her thighs apart further, nuzzling the soft gossamer, his thumbs delicately opening apart the velvet folds of her sex.

Sara’s hands restlessly stroked Grissom’s strong nape, and she gave a shudder as his tongue slid along her dark pink cleft with hungry familiarity. She chewed on the terrycloth gag, grateful for it as hot waves of arousal washed through her body, spurred on by the scrape of his beard against her inner thighs. His slow, tender licks drove her mad, and she gripped Grissom’s shoulders, nails biting into his skin lightly as her tension grew tighter with every flick of his tongue. Finally in desperation she clawed a little harder; he moved his lips higher and suckled on the swollen little bud he’d been teasing.  
She arched up against his mouth, her long limbs shivering, her fingers scrabbling on the carved curves of his broad shoulders as she came, deep and hard, her entire lean frame shuddering with tingling pleasure so intense that white sparks went off behind her closed eyes.

After a moment, Sara raked her fingers through Grissom’s thick hair and tenderly tugged, pulling his face away from her thigh where he rested his cheek. She looked down into his eyes, seeing the black pupils so wide and dark, nearly swallowed up the blue as he smiled at her. Blinking away sudden tears, she tugged at the gag, letting it drop to the carpet, then hungrily kissed him. Grissom surged up, strong arms coming up around her as his tongue slid against hers and Sara tasted herself deep in his mouth.

“Out of all of them, Sara pie is my favorite,” he roughly whispered to her. “Juicy and sweet; completely satisfying.”

She wiped her cheek against his, her tears wetting his beard when she did so.

“Damn it, you always know the right thing to say—“ she sighed back. Grissom smiled and kissed her again.

Sara broke off the kiss and looked down, her own grin crookedly endearing as she reached for the hard shaft nearly bumping the edge of the rocker seat.

“I have an idea,” she whispered. Grissom tilted his head in his ‘I’m listening’ gesture.

Carefully Sara motioned him back and then rose out of the chair. She turned, and very gently knelt on the seat of the rocking chair, gripping the edges of the back as she slid her knees apart, then glanced over her shoulder at Grissom.

He stood, enthralled at the sight of her sleek round ass barely covered by the filmy nightie, her lovely cleft and dark curls slick and erotic in the lamplight. Grissom stepped closer and shivered; Sara very sensually wiggled her bottom and he needed no further enticement. He used one hand to grip her hip, the other to guide himself into the soft, juicy squeeze of her sex.

Sara rocked.

Grissom bit his lips hard to stop from groaning out loud as his aching cock sank deep into her. A second later, the chair and Sara pulled away from him, only to re-sheath him again, beginning a steady rhythm of pulsing strokes as his hands slid up under the nightie and gripped her waist.  
He thrust harder, stepping close enough to feel Sara’s thighs against his as he rocked the chair with her on it. The tight slick wedge of her around his cock was maddeningly wonderful, and Grissom’s pulse pounded in time with his frantic strokes, growing harder and faster until with a choked growl he drove deeply, hands clenching her damp waist in a tight hold as he came, slow and hard, pulse after hot, voluptuous pulse.

His legs shook and he slumped over her long back, resting his sweaty cheek on her shoulder blade as he braced himself on the arms of the rocking chair trying to catch his breath. Under him, Sara laughed softly.

“I’m with YOU, Grissom. We’re going shopping for a rocker when we get home.”

“We’ll make it an early Christmas present for the two of us,” he groaned happily.

*** *** ***

By early Sunday everyone was packed and ready to go; Avra shot mournful looks at the family around the breakfast table. “This isn’t fair. Thanksgiving is simply far too short, and I’m going to miss you all.”

“Mom, the kids and I will be back at Christmas, and you know you always have a full house with the Masons here,” Tom murmured, spearing a forkful of waffle and eating it.

Sara nodded and added to Grissom, “The Masons have been coming to Ocean Inn for Christmas for almost twenty-two years now—originally they got stranded here the first time and liked it so much they’ve made it a tradition to come back every year."

“Family by adoption,” Will agreed cheerfully, sipping his coffee, “So don’t fret, Avra. The Mason twins will keep you hopping, and Sara and Gil will be back again soon, I know they will.”

“Gil has to come back. He’s gonna show me how to spit a cricket,” Sam announced importantly. Sophie made a disgusted sound, and Avra looked over her glasses at Grissom, who looked back at her with a small smile.

“There’s a cricket spitting contest at the Bug Bowl. I’ve never even come close to the record, but Sam has a chance in his age category.”

“Ah well, yes that’s definitely a reason to come back,” she teased gently. “Sara, I’ll call you sometime next week about certain lists, and I’ll need sizes. More waffles, anyone?

Tom left first, loading Sophie and Sam, the luggage and an enormous bag of Thanksgiving leftovers into his Volvo after they’d made their round of goodbye hugs; Grissom was startled to be included. Sophie smiled up at him as she squeezed his neck tightly.  
“I liked it when you made Aunt Sara shoot milk out her nose,” she whispered, giggling a little.

Awkwardly, Tom gave him a light, quick hug as well, adding, “Good job with the kittens, man. That was pretty damn noble.”

The Volvo pulled away amid honks, waves and blown kisses; Avra sighed as Will slipped an arm around her comfortingly as he leaned on his cane. “Sheesh old woman! The way you carry on you’d think they were going to the moon instead of Sausalito.”

Avra shot him an indignant look, and turned to Sara instead. “And you two—I suppose the taxi’s coming?”

“Should be on the way, mom,” Sara admitted softly, pulling her sweater more closely around her. The weather had gotten colder even though the day was still sunny. Avra sighed.

“All right then. Oh! Your print!” she squeaked in a manner so similar to her daughter that Grissom glanced at her, smiling. Avra scurried back into the house, leaving Will, Sara and Grissom standing on the porch. The wind chimes rattled softly, and Will sighed. He looked over at the two of them, his glance infinitely wise and gentle.

“It’s been a lovely visit, you two. Glad you’ve got each other, and when you get the chance, come on back. It will do Avra good, you know.”

“Dad,” Sara slipped her arms around him and hugged, hard. Will kissed her forehead, his mustache tickling the way it had for all the years of her life. He looked to Grissom, his smile deepening as some secret, profoundly masculine acknowledgement passed between them in a single glance. He cleared his throat. “Gil. Take care of yourself and my girl. Don’t let Las Vegas wear you two down, hear me?”

The taxi pulled up just as Avra came back out, holding a mailing tube in her hands. She gave it to Sara and hugged her daughter tightly, words tumbling out in a hurried rush.

“It’s the print of your hands, girlchild. Get it framed when you can. Oh I love you, I miss you, have a safe, safe trip!”

Turning to Grissom she hugged him as much, scarcely catching a breath as she rattled on, “And you! Stay safe and come back soon, Gil!”

He hugged her back, moved beyond words for a moment at the warmth of affection coming from both her and Will.

They settled into the taxi quietly content, not speaking until they reached the small terminal at the Cessna airfield. Sara helped Grissom load their carryon luggage on the tiny cramped seat between them and once seated herself, looked in the shopping bag of leftovers her mother had pressed on them.

“Grissom?”

“What?” he glanced from the view out the window at her. She gave a twisted grin, reaching into the bag where a small furry body was busily eating part of a sliver of turkey.

“We have a stowaway.”

Figaro blinked up at them for a moment, then went back to eating. Grissom looked at Sara; she laughed as the engines of the plane began to rev up. 

END

**Author's Note:**

> Here we meet Truman Ibarra for the first time but not the last. I diverged with Canon in creating Will and Avra Sidle; in this universe Sara's parents are happily married hippies with no murderous trauma between them.


End file.
